


Tender is the Night

by KnightVanguard, timeandspaces, Woolfsbane



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Sex, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Murder, Paranormal, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 196,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightVanguard/pseuds/KnightVanguard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandspaces/pseuds/timeandspaces, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woolfsbane/pseuds/Woolfsbane
Summary: The CEO of the Elsinore fashion empire is mysteriously killed, leaving his son Hamlet, an aspiring actor and senior at Juilliard College, to question the causes of his beloved father’s death as well as the reasons for his own existence. When an answer comes to him and his closest friends one night during a light-hearted seance, death is revealed to be less final than it seems, leaving them all with more questions than answers. Ghosts, it would seem, are real, and they are tangible enough to tear through the lives and loves of anyone who comes across them.





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! A quick note about this fic: 
> 
> Each chapter consists of three parts, each in one POV. Ophelia's POV is written by KnightVanguard, Horatio's POV is written by timeandspaces, and Hamlet's POV is written by Woolfsbane.
> 
> Due to the pandemic, we are currently on a break. However, we do intend to finish this fic in the future. 
> 
> We will post chapter-specific trigger warnings, though the ones in the main tags are liable to be referenced frequently.

Every good theater has its ghost and Juilliard’s theater was the best. Now, Ophelia had it on pretty good authority that she was dating said ghost, which is why she was tasked with bringing the ouija board to the catwalks and not Hamlet. As she climbed up the wrought-iron ladder with the board tucked under her arm, she wondered for a moment if they would be caught by security, or worse, her very Catholic father.

Horatio and Hamlet were already waiting for her at the predetermined meeting place. Ophelia checked her phone. 11:56PM. She was four minutes early. They had absolutely no right to look as distressed as they did.

“Where were you?” Horatio whispered. “We were starting to get worried.”

“My dad reorganized the costume loft again and he must have found my hiding spot, because the board was very not where I left it.” Ophelia huffed.

“I didn’t know that old bat could still lift anything, never mind those boxes of shoes,” Hamlet laughed.

“Well, he’s clearly still capable,” she muttered. Ophelia was about to say something defending her father, but stopped short. She didn’t really want to argue with Hamlet about that for the millionth time today. No, they were supposed to have fun and get crazy, stupid drunk and play with ghosts.

If Ophelia were being honest, their ouija board looked straight out of a horror movie. It wasn’t so much of a board as a block of wood with red letters painted in Horatio’s god-awful handwriting. They had made it back in their freshman year before their first hell week. It did fuck-all to help them hex their awful directors, but had since morphed into their pre-show ritual. 

“Do you have the goods?” She asked, holding the planchette by her ear. Hamlet slid over a couple bottles of Smirnoff Ice to Ophelia and took out a bottle of Grey Goose for himself.

“I don’t know how you can stand that swill,” he said, looking her up and down. Ophelia did not like that at all.

“It’s basically alcoholic soda. Beats the taste of acetone. Did you even bring anything to mix it with?” Ophelia rolled her eyes and noticed Horatio drinking red wine from the bottle. 

“It has, like, calories,” Hamlet squinted and held one of the bottles up to the floodlights.

“Oh, god. What ever shall I do?” Ophelia sighed and put her wrist to her forehead. “I guess I’ll just have to, I don’t know, enjoy my life. Pity.”

Hamlet rolled his eyes and took a swig straight from the bottle without pulling a face. Ophelia knew as soon as she turned her back he’d have some sort of reaction. This was to spite her. Good thing it wasn’t working. 

“You’re a monster, you know that,” Horatio said as he drank more wine. “Let’s just open our portal to hell and get on with it.”

“I don’t technically think it’s portal to hell,” Ophelia mused. “More like a landline. Or two cans with a string attached.” She tossed Horatio the planchette and the three of them knelt around the board. The scorch marks and wine stains from meetings past only served to strengthen her resolve.

Ophelia wasn’t afraid; oh no. None of this was real, but they would inevitably get really drunk and Hamlet was a whiny bitch when he was drunk. Whiny and cuddly. It would be a miracle if she would be able to go back to her dorm room alone.

The trio sat with their knees touching and Horatio began the ritual, as he was the only one allowed to actually talk to ghosts. Hamlet had been formally banned after the firewall incident of sophomore year. They pressed their fingers to the planchette and moved it three circles.

“Hello, spirit, are you there?” Horatio asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell it that we don’t want negative energy or something like that?” Hamlet asked.

“Nah, we can deal with evil,” Horatio shrugged towards Ophelia. “That one deals with Polonius all the time. Evil from the grave is no big deal.”

“I can’t get possessed. I have to be the lead.” Hamlet snapped.

“You fool. You absolute buffoon. Ghosts can’t possess people. Only demons can.” Ophelia said. “And my dad is neither a ghost nor a demon. Get your head out of your ass.”

“Well, I don’t want to get possessed by a demon either.” Hamlet rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think any demon, living or dead, would want to possess you,” Horatio said.

“Hey! I’m gorgeous.”

“You’re so high maintenance that any demon would have a sympathetic anxiety attack and kick itself out of your body for its own wellbeing,” Ophelia laughed. If she had less self control, _she_ would have a sympathetic anxiety attack. Even trying to deal with his mom from her relatively isolated place as Hamlet’s girlfriend was far too much. 

“Focus,” Horatio snapped. “Spirit, are you there?” The planchette moved to yes.

“Ask it if it’s going to kill all the faculty,” Hamlet said.

“Don’t be an ass,” Ophelia grumbled as she drank more of the lemon vodka. “The only people we’re allowed to murder via ghost are his pretentious acting professors,” she said, nudging Hamlet.

“Okay, spirit, what’s your name?” Horatio asked after he downed another mouthful of wine. H-A-M-L-E-T. “Right, right. Hamlet is right there,” he sighed. “What’s  your  name?”

“There’s only one other person on the face of the earth with that name,” Ophelia laughed, “And our little theater ghost is definitely not him.” Hamlet Sr, Letta Kierkegaard, would not haunt a conservatory theater. Ophelia imagined he had better things to do like ghost philanthropy or tormenting Gertrude.

“Yeah,” Hamlet muttered. “Definitely not.” The planchette didn’t spell anything in response.

“Okay, do you think it’s funny to mess with us?” Horatio asked. The planchette moved to ‘yes.’

“Oh fantastic, someone after my own heart.” Ophelia finished another bottle of lemon flavored vodka and was beginning to feel it; not enough to feel drunk, but still. She leaned her head against her Hamlet’s shoulder. “Too bad the real Hamlet isn’t much good at jokes or fun.”

“I’m plenty fun,” Hamlet deadpanned.

“Plenty fun when you’re not hellbent on performing or being miserable,” Horatio huffed.

“Plenty of fun when I can get him in my bed,” Ophelia said. Shit. Alcohol. Those words were totally not meant to come out of her mouth. Hamlet gave her a look. 

“We don’t need to have this conversation. Spirit, why are you talking to us now?” Horatio asked. He drank more red wine. On any other day, Ophelia would be distressed that one of her closest friends had gone through nearly half a bottle of wine by himself, but this was ghost seance night and everything goes.

W-A-R-N-I-N-G spelled the planchette.

“Well, that’s not good,” Horatio said.

“And what, pray tell, are you warning us about?” Hamlet asked. He broke the rules. Only Horatio was allowed to ask the ghosts questions.

M-U-R-D-E-R

“Well aren’t you just a dramatic motherfucker,” Ophelia said, propping her free hand over her knee. “I don’t think you can do much murdering. You’re dead.”

“Ophelia, don’t provoke it,” Horatio hissed.

“It’s clearly a him. Women don’t go around cryptically warning drunk college students about murder,” Ophelia reasoned. The planchette moved to ‘yes’. “Called it.” Ophelia finished her third bottle. This was going to get really interesting really quickly, so maybe she could stop before she did something stupid, yes? Yes. Reluctantly, she put the last bottle in her bag. Hamlet and Horatio did not seem so keen on not being completely shitfaced in the face of a murderous ghost.

If anything, they drank more. Ophelia knew Hamlet was bad when he willingly started to cuddle her. She awkwardly patted his shoulder. Great. Now she could add “Does not know how to process affection” to her list of character flaws.

“Are you going to kill us?” Horatio asked. His words were not quite as distinct and well-articulated as they normally were. The planchette moved to ‘no.’

“Can you please kill us?” Hamlet asked. The planchette stayed on ‘no.’ “Come on, it would be so easy. We’re all theater students. Those two are remarkably squishy.”

“I am not squishy,” Horatio said defensively. “I can fight with a sword.”

“I have honed squishiness to a science,” Ophelia said. “And I’m winning.”

G-O-O-D the planchette spelled. M-I-S-S Y-O-U.

“Miss us?” Horatio asked. “Why?”

L-O-V-E Y-O-U

“Yikes,” Ophelia whispered. “You’ve made a very poor decision.”

“Who are you?” Horatio asked. The planchette was halfway moving towards a number when the trio heard yelling and yanked their hands off the board.

“Get down at once,” an older man yelled. “That is a safety violation. I’m not even sure how you hooligans got into the building.”

Of all the people, it wasn’t a manipulatable security guard or a jaded faculty member. No, it was Polonius. Her father. Ophelia groaned. She didn’t even know he was capable of staying up past midnight. Weren’t old people supposed to go to sleep at like, five or something?

“Why do you three always get up to trouble? Especially you, Ophelia,” the old man lectured. “I expect better things from you. All of this gallivanting around will…” and blah blah blah. Ophelia didn’t give a damn. Well, she did care; a lot, actually; but she couldn’t process everything all at once. She zoned out for the rest of his rant and sheepishly helped the very drunk Horatio and Hamlet down from the catwalk. If she hadn’t been there, they most certainly would have fallen off the ladder and died. She could apologize to her dad later and offered to clean the entire loft. 

Once they had been so thoroughly evicted form their beloved theater, Ophelia paused before returning to her dorm.

“Are you going to be okay?” She made a show of directing it at both of them, but she and Horatio both knew the question was meant for Hamlet. There was disturbingly little vodka left in that bottle.

“He’ll be fine. I’ve got him,” Horatio tried to say encouragingly, but he tripped a little over a crack in the sidewalk.

“You’re sure?” she asked. Before she got an answer she continued, “Call me if you need it. I’ll be around.”

* * *

“This isn’t the right way.” Hamlet said authoritatively, still leaning the entirety of his weight into Horatio’s shoulder.

“Yes it is.” Horatio protested. He paused to adjust Hamlet but, after it became clear that any attempt to make the other stand on his own was doomed to failure, accepted his fate as a human wall and kept walking. The street lights threw the strangely quiet New York sidewalk into an odd paleness, making the air in front of them look like mist. Horatio shuddered slightly.

“This isn’t the way, Horatio.” Hamlet repeated, more insistently. “We should have taken the street back there.” He waved a hand in no particular direction.

“No, this is the way. I’m positive.” Was he actually positive? Not in the least. Horatio had lost track of the street numbers about five minutes ago, too busy making sure his feet were moving in sync to really pay attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, Horatio could see Hamlet scrutinize him carefully. “You don’t know where we are.” He finally said, accusingly. “We’re lost.”

“I know where we are.” Horatio insisted. “Lord knows I’ve made this trip enough times to come rescue you.”

“Rescue me?” Hamlet scoffed. “When have I ever?”

“One time you called me at four in the morning because you were out of good toilet paper and refused to use two ply.” Horatio recited his list of Hamlet favors from memory. “And then there was that time you made me come over to kill a spider that turned out to be a piece of lint. Oh, and the incident with the glitter, hot glue gun, and vibrator. Can’t forget that one.”

“That wasn’t an incident, that was a stroke of genius.” Hamlet said, flipping his hair back from his face. As the blond caught the streetlights, Horatio commanded himself not to stare. “Besides,” Hamlet continued, “why are you complaining? You’re the one who came every time.”

“Only because it meant I got free entertainment.” Horatio covered quickly. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around, searching the night sky for any sign of Hamlet’s penthouse. The thing was fucking huge. He should not be missing it.

“You’re lost.” Hamlet said. “We’re going to be out here all night. We’ll probably be kidnapped or murdered or something.”

“We’re not going to be murdered.” Horatio cut in before Hamlet could go off on another rant about his passionate desire to be railed by the concept of death. “I know where we are.”

“Then where, pray tell, are we?” Hamlet challenged nastily.

“New York.”

A beat. “You’ve stranded us!”

“No, I haven’t-”

“Whatever.” Hamlet rolled his eyes and pulled his phone out. “I’m going to call Ophelia.”

“No!”

Hamlet looked at him, annoyance evident as he continued to type failed passwords into his phone without looking down. Horatio could practically feel himself beginning to sweat under Hamlet’s vodka-dulled gaze and he struggled to clear his throat. “I mean, why bother Ophelia? She’s probably already asleep anyway.” A weak excuse. Inconveniencing someone else had literally never stopped Hamlet before. “And, uh...if you were to sleep over…” Horatio inclined his head and pulled up his most sympathetic look. “She’s on her period.”

Bad lie. Bad as in immoral and bad as in just plain see-through. Horatio crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped that five-drink Hamlet was feeling especially blond this evening.

Hamlet narrowed his eyes at Horatio before sighing and leaning back into Horatio’s arms. He stowed his phone away, obviously too bored with the situation to look further into it. Success. And now Horatio felt terrible. Such was the price of this constant internal battle, he supposed, weighing how little he liked hearing about his crush’s sexual exploits with Ophelia vs. how much Horatio respected and loved Ophelia vs. how tired Horatio was of having that goddamn wet dream about fucking Hamlet against the men’s dressing room wall.

Every. Single. Night.

“You should just let me sleep with you.” Hamlet piped up suddenly, speaking more like a prince commanding his subject than a college student talking to a friend. “If I have to walk another step, I’m going to collapse on the concrete.”

“I can’t let you sleep in my room.” Horatio avoided Hamlet’s side eye. Moving his eyes too rapidly made the world turn. “Guildenstern’s here tonight.”

“Last week you said your roommate’s name was Rosencrantz.” Hamlet shot back huffily.

“I have two roommates.”

“Since when?”

“So what did you think of that ghost?” Horatio interjected just a bit too loudly. “Weird right? I mean, what ghost would pretend to be you? And the murder thing was a bit unnerving.”

Hamlet squinted at him. Still pressed against Horatio’s arm, the movement made his unnervingly handsome face contort, which, in turn, made it easier for Horatio to focus his alcohol fueled brain away from rampant horniness. “I thought you made that part up for shits and gigs.” Hamlet muttered after a moment.

“I’d never fake a seance.” Horatio said. “It’s my sacred duty as the group’s resident ghost whisperer to deliver nothing but the truth.”

Hamlet laughed derisively. “Only because you’re scared of demonic retribution.”

“Yes.” Horatio replied seriously. “There are consequences to being raised Roman Catholic, Hamlet.” He looked back to the skyline and sighed in relief. He pointed to the front door of the tall, pink-glowing building across the street. “And look, there’s your penthouse. Told you I could find it.”

Hamlet glared into the air, nose wrinkled with distaste. “You got lucky.” He admitted begrudgingly. “Now,” he lifted one leg and dropped it across Horatio’s outstretched arm, causing him to stumble, “up.”

“Beg pardon?” Horatio asked. He struggled to make his common sense work around the fact that Hamlet had one leg draped over him and his hand on his shoulder and his legs spread in a near split.

“Up.” Hamlet commanded again with the utmost laziness. When Horatio continued to stare at him in mild distress, he groaned loudly. “Horatio, lift me up.” He spoke like he was training a particularly dimwitted dog to sit.

“Oh. Oh, right.” Horatio lifted Hamlet into his arms bridal style. He walked into the lobby of the building, shoving his way awkwardly through the rotating door. The guard at the front desk gave the pair a long look before spotting Hamlet in Horatio’s arms.

“Hello, sir.” The guard said to Hamlet. “Having a pleasant evening?”

“‘Sup, Marcellus.” Hamlet called, tipping himself back in Horatio’s arms to look at the guard upside down and nearly unbalancing them both. As Horatio wrestled to keep his feet, Hamlet beamed charmingly. “Lovely evening for a ghostly drinking binge, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so, sir.” The guard replied, unperturbed. His eyes flicked to Horatio and sparked with recognition. “Ah, hello, Horatio. Almost didn’t recognize without all the books and folders.”

“Hey, Marcellus.” Horatio managed. He hefted Hamlet more firmly into his arms and looked pleadingly towards the elevator. “Could you…?”

“Of course.”

Marcellus unlocked the elevator’s grated door, letting both Horatio step inside. As soon as the door slid closed, Horatio collapsed against the plush back wall. Though he certainly wasn’t out of shape, Hamlet was still reasonably heavy and Horatio wasn’t in the habit of carrying weights.

“Hey,” Hamlet snapped, “don’t drop me. This face costs more than your entire inheritance.”

“I’ve told you before, Hamlet, normal people don’t have inheritance.” Horatio groaned.

“Well fine then. It costs more than whatever you  poor people leave each other. Food Stamps. Lounge furniture. Creepy crosses with impaled naked men on them. Whatever.”

Horatio heaved himself to his feet as the elevator door opened and staggered down the hall. He stopped in front of Hamlet’s door and prepared to complete the impossible task of fishing his extra key out while maintaining a grip on his friend before a full understanding of what he was doing emerged from beneath the haze of lust and red wine.

Horatio dropped Hamlet on the  Like a Good Neighbor, Stay Over There mat in front of his door.

“What the hell, Horatio!?” Hamlet was on his feet immediately, beautiful face twisted in righteous fury. “Didn’t I tell you not to damage the merchandise!”

Horatio shrugged. “Got you home. Night, Hamlet.”

“Oh, I think not!” Hamlet announced. He caught Horatio by the elbow as he tried to turn away. “Now you need to come inside and rub my bruised tailbone.”

Horatio frowned even as his heart skipped several beats. Giving Hamlet a massage, he knew, would lead to cuddling, a minor if not entirely satisfying fulfillment of Horatio’s emotional and physical cravings. But the alcohol. Alcohol and boner control were not exactly best friends.

Hamlet must have read the reluctance on Horatio’s face because he suddenly grinned wickedly. “Do it or I’ll call Ophelia.”

Horatio internally glared daggers through Hamlet’s skull. Manipulative little shit. Horatio couldn’t believe  this was who his dumb heart and dumber dick had chosen to latch onto. “Fine.” He said, yanking out his extra key to Hamlet’s apartment. “Only for an hour.”

Knowing Hamlet, Horatio would be there all night.

* * *

The ghost hadn’t been him. There was one other person named Hamlet, and that person was quite literally the only one who would be reaching out from beyond the veil to tell him that he was loved. It kept him up. He never really believed in ghosts, but it was too much to be coincidence, and there was no way that Horatio or Ophelia would be cruel enough to make a joke out of his father’s death. He tried everything to shake it off, but between the alcohol and his own grief he couldn’t. He’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, goofing off would help him sleep. But no. Nothing would, if spending time with them and having one of them sleep over wasn’t enough. He knew that now. Once Horatio had fallen asleep and he’d stopped having an audience to perform ‘happy’ for, the pain, anger, and absence set in, dark and poisonous enough to choke him.

He needed Horatio to be deep enough asleep that he wouldn’t stir. Hamlet propped himself up on one arm, looking over his sleeping friend. He brushed an overgrown lock of brown hair from his eyes, trying not to feel anything when Horatio’s brow furrowed slightly in his sleep. He let his fingers trace from his cheek down to his chest, resting momentarily over his heart. Horatio would be the one to find him if this worked. For all his sarcasm and general disregard for sentimentality, Hamlet felt a need to at least privately acknowledge their years of friendship. He took a last look and a deep breathe before he got up.

The suite was a gift from Mother. Dad was a true Scandinavian and believed in their more socialist values, so this never would have flown were it up to him. Because Dad actually felt love and compassion, and would never use a nigh-to-billion dollar trust fund to buy his son’s affection back. He also probably wouldn’t have gotten engaged on the same fucking day as the funeral service, but well. There’s French-American billionaires for you.  Do it for the camera , and all that utter horseshit. To his uncle, no less. It felt incestuous, even if they weren’t  technically related. He let the wrath fuel him, pulling him away from the safety of his bed.

Hamlet walked into the bathroom, flicking on some of the lights. He hissed at himself in the mirror, revolted by the messy hair and dark circles visible under his eyes. He could conceal those, but maybe they added to the image. He brushed his hair at least, making sure his wavy blond locks fell just-so over his brow. Better. He was already wearing what he wanted. A beautiful black bathrobe, which always made him feel a bit like one of those dead authors Horatio loved so much. Lord Byron maybe. He was miserable, if he recalled correctly. Perhaps Woolf. Drowning in a river had a certain ring to it, but alas. The rivers near the city were revolting, and he wasn’t going to let his hair anywhere near that much pollution.

He went over his options again. Hanging was too ugly, and he hated the lack of control. He placed his three bottles of medication on the sink. Xanax could do it. Xanax could easily do it. Especially if he mixed it with the sleeping pills he nearly never took and the anti-depressants he took every day. He had another bottle of Grey Goose in the kitchen. Easy. There was the concern about vomiting, though. That was saved only for when he was forced to eat something he didn’t like at a social event. It was unbecoming for a death.

He opened up a few of the drawers, rifled through those. Ah, a razor. Why on earth did he still have that? He hadn’t needed to shave anything since he got laser hair removal on all the places he didn’t want hair. With a bobby pin he unscrewed the tiny screw that held the blade within the handle. He looked at it. It was an ugly little rectangle, and even though he knew that technically this was the drug of choice among the depressed first years, he was underwhelmed. How was that supposed to hit an artery? He pocketed it. Onto the kitchen.

Bleach was out of the question. It might burn his skin. He grabbed a kitchen knife.  This was a blade. It was one of those expensive imported Japanese steel ones that the great chefs get hard for. Beautifully balanced, and wickedly sharp from almost never being used. It was...imposing. But not in an unpleasant way. More of a “drop on a roller-coaster” type of sensation, with just a little bit of sexual arousal at the thought of how it would feel shoved between his ribs. Again, though. The lack of control. He probably only had the resolve for one stab, so if he missed his heart there would be no other option besides waking Horatio and begging him to finish the job. Which he wouldn’t do. Because he was Horatio.

He glanced towards the window with a bored look. He could always jump. That had a certain poetry to it. The fall would obliterate his body, though, and the goal was to be as beautiful as possible, even in death. Very well. Razor it was.

He considered briefly if maybe he should write a note. No. That would be to cliché. If his friends really knew him, they’d know why. He closed the door to the bathroom. Should he lock it? Probably. It showed a certain resolve. He slid the little bar lock closed and let his bathrobe drop to the ground. If he was doing this, it would be in a scented bath. He drew the water, poured in the scented salts, and grabbed a fist full of flower petals from the box he kept in a drawer for occasions that required them. Usually involving Ophelia. He felt a shock of guilt. He probably should have written something for her, but it was too late. He littered them over the water, checking the temperature. He kicked himself for leaving his phone by the bed. He should have looked up if there was anything he needed to add to the water to prevent his blood from clotting. Too late now. If he struck true, he wouldn’t need to worry about it.

He let himself relax in the water for a few minutes. The scent of roses and lavender; maybe peony and chamomile filled the room in the hazy steam. The razor was resting meekly on the side of the porcelain tub. Horatio would find him, probably. If not him then Osric. Maybe Ophelia if she got upset enough with him for missing date night tomorrow. Most likely it would be Horatio. He’d probably be into his methods, once he got over being sad. This was so very up his alley of literary interests. It had better be him instead of Ophelia. She’d despise this for its over-adherence to aesthetic rules, even with the grief.

“Alright, let’s do this,” he said to himself quietly, lifting the razor with a sudsy hand. He tested the blade by ghosting a finger over it. Very sharp. Obviously. It was brand new, and he’d certainly never used it. God, Mother was going to feel so bad. Maybe even Claudius. Hopefully they’d know this was their fault.

He held the rectangular piece of sharpened metal over the ghostly pale skin of his wrist. If the internet was right, he was aiming deep and for the artery that lay between the tendon and the bone. The big one that was used to find a pulse. Oh, and he was supposed to cut vertical and not horizontal like in the movies. Issue was that the horizontal marks just looked so much better than a single, nasty one. Then again, the overly emotional depressed kids kind of had their whole image wrapped up with the horizontal ones. He didn’t want to be remembered as one of them. They were all so unkept and ugly. If he succeeded, though, it wouldn’t matter. They were pathetic and never got further than stitches.

Hamlet’s resolve wavered. He’d never actually seen much blood before. And he’d have to lose so very much of it in order to die. The human body had maybe a couple liters of it, and he’s need to lose a third of that before his heart would start giving out. What if the cuts hurt? Razors were sharp, so the pain would be delayed, but what if. If he were to call out or make noise, Horatio might wake up, and even if he wasn’t as muscle-bound as some of the guys Hamlet knew, he could probably take out the door. Maybe he should just feel out the pain and blood of an initial cut, go back to bed, and try this again when he was alone.

If he was testing it, it had to be somewhere that wouldn’t show if he rolled up a sleeve. Crook of his arm, maybe. That was wrist-ish nerve wise, and it could be hidden even if he rolled up a sleeve. And then he’d know for sure if this was the most comfortable way to go. He suddenly wished he’d paid more attention when those emo kids were comparing their old antics back in his first year. How much pressure were you supposed to use? Did length matter? Was he at risk of infection? Antibiotics were so bad for his health.

“Stop being a fucking baby,” he whispered to himself. “If those stupid, hideous goth kids can do it, you can do it.” He held the blade above his arm, but panicked as someone knocked ont he door.

“Hamlet?” Horatio asked. Hamlet cringed, placing the razor back on the side of the tub. He felt his trance-like fit of suicidal ideation shatter, facing him with the reality that he was naked in the bath at four in the morning. Where resolve had been, grief hit, and with it the tears.

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said weakly. “Go back to bed.”

“What’s wrong?” Horatio asked, bleary but concerned. “Is this about the ghost?” Hamlet had no response. He pulled his knees up to his face and hugged them. “Let me in,” Horatio commanded.

He was exhausted. He could feel the desire to yell and argue; to say something witty and sharp to reassure Horatio that all was well. But he couldn’t muster the energy. He got up from the bath and pulled his robe over his shoulders, opening up the door.

“Hey…” Horatio’s tone grew gentle, indicating he could tell Hamlet was crying.

“Please, just go to bed,” Hamlet said, wiping his eyes. “I’m okay. I just puked a lot.”

“Were you taking a bath?” Horatio asked, glancing past him to the tub. His green eyes grew wide as he spotted the discarded razor. “Is that-”

“It’s fine,” Hamlet said quickly. He placed a hand on Horatio’s hip, ghosting a finger ‘accidentally’ along the edge of his boxers; a known last-resort for distracting him. Sure enough, he felt Horatio take a minutely sharp breath inwards. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Hamlet-” Horatio sighed, but turned away from the bathroom. “Okay.” He managed to pull Horatio back into bed, unwillingly obeying their unspoken six-inch rule of personal space.

“Can you-” Hamlet started, but broke himself off. It would cross a line if he asked to be held, even for him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Horatio asked stiffly, turning onto his side.

“I won’t,” Hamlet said, a little too sharply. “I...don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Horatio sighed again. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Hamlet whispered. He lay awake until he heard Horatio’s breathing level out. It wasn’t crossing a line if was an accident. Ophelia would never need to know, since he’d never tell and there’d be no reason for Horatio to say anything if they just woke up He got closer, but hesitated. “Are you awake?” He whispered. No response. He pressed himself against Horatio’s chest, careful not to wake him. In his sleep, Horatio sank against him, draping an arm across him. Pressed flush against his front, Hamlet was acutely aware of the feeling of his toned body under his thin t-shirt and the faint smell of paper that clung to his hands. With their hips so close together he could feel something else, too, sending an unwilling heat through his body. He held his breath, trying his best to convince himself that this was normal.


	2. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia prepares for a date. Horatio is hung over. Hamlet acts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading our fic! I'm sorry that this chapter is a day late, but we all had to move and pack for the new semester. As always, we love hearing from you all.
> 
> Trigger warnings for dieting.

Wow, an entire night gone by and not a single text from Hamlet. Ophelia wondered what type of empathetic wizardry Horatio pulled in order to make her dream a reality. The poor kid deserved some rest. After all that shit with his father and uncle, it was a minor miracle he ever slept at all. But this was good. A night out was a night of distraction and Ophelia was dying to get Hamlet to relax a little. Soon, she reminded herself. Soon, he would be able to heal and everything would go back to normal, whatever that actually meant.

Ophelia shuffled through a stack of sticky notes on her desk. She did remember correctly. Tonight Hamlet was taking her to the Ritz by Central Park. Yet another one of those places where the unfathomably wealthy go; where her grandmother would be ashamed she ever set foot.

What to do first? Her hair was constantly a living nightmare, so might as well take a shower. She loved her hair, even when she complained about it. It was long and thick with just the right amount of curl. As the hot water washed over her, Ophelia had the brief thought that perhaps she should pluck her eye brows or whatever normal girls do when they have date nights, but quickly thought better of it.

She basically took the opposite approach of her dear Hamlet. If it existed on her person, it was perfect, so why worry? As she rinsed the fig and honey shampoo out of her hair, she took a mental catalogue of all the clothes she could possibly wear to this event. Her white silk shirt for sure. It was one of her pride and joys, after all. Each flower on the collar and cuff had been painstakingly hand embroidered. Ophelia was an expert seamstress, but even that amount of finesse and detail drew some blood. It was worth it.

She had decided about two months ago that she would wear her oxford pumps. She laughed as she wrapped her hair in a towel. No wonder Hamlet was so uppity about his image if he spent his entire early childhood at places like  that . The thought of being seen by that many judgmental adults was enough to drive her halfway insane.

Once she got back to her dorm room, Ophelia checked her phone again. Still nothing from Hamlet or Horatio. It was a little strange. Almost one in the afternoon and nothing was practically unheard of for them. Usually Horatio wanted to weep about how prissy Hamlet was or Hamlet had been cornered by fuzz that looked suspiciously like a spider. Six times. No, Ophelia would not let him live it down. It was one of the things she loved about him.

Well, if she had so much time, she might as well make herself a new skirt. None of the ones currently in her wardrobe would do. She wanted something burgundy and floral. She had about four different fabrics to choose from hidden under her bed. The first one with some tulle for volume and the pattern for a tea length circle skirt and she was good to go.

Ophelia’s secret was that sewing was actually quite simple, once one figured out the hardware. The issue was that most people didn’t bother to figure out the hardware. After that, it was just, measure and cut and stitch together. Well, maybe not quite that simple, but this kind of skirt Ophelia could make as easy as breathing.

The trick, artistically speaking, was making sure she didn’t look like she was some man’s 50’s wet dream. She could usually obtain the desired affect by looking like a bitch and wearing loud jewelry. Item number four on every  “men hate when you wear this” article: bangles and statement pieces. How dare she exist, make noise, and alert men to her continued presence. Just barbarous.

Ophelia popped on a podcast and devoted herself entirely to her work.  _ Welcome to Nightvale _ was just weird enough to keep her interested and just soothing enough not to completely freak her out. The fictional exploits of Cecil, Carlos, and Kohshek were one of her favorite pastimes, mostly because she got to pair them with sewing. A few episodes passed and Ophelia was done with her skirt and still no call or text from Hamlet or Horatio.

Ophelia did her hair, pinned in some roses and then decided to just go to Hamlet’s bougie penthouse. She was a full two hours early, but really, who gave a damn. She knew the walk to his apartment even in ridiculous heels.

“Oh hello, Ms. Cortez,” the receptionist said as she entered the lobby. Before she started dating Hamlet it was the most expensive room she’d ever been in.

“Hello, Bernardo,” Ophelia said sweetly. “May I please see Hamlet?”

Bernardo opened the elevator and Ophelia was allowed to go straight up. It had been a long time since anyone asked for either her or Horatio’s IDs or an invitation. They were basically permanent fixtures of the place. She knocked on Hamlet’s door and waited for him to answer.

“Horatio?” She asked, when the man that opened the door was very much not her boyfriend. Ophelia quickly recovered her cool. “I didn’t know you’d still be here.”

“I didn’t know I’d still be here either.” He sounded exhausted, but he looked fine. Hamlet did tend to have that effect on people.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah. I think Hamlet is...I don’t know. Doing something to make himself look more like a peacock? I haven’t seen him in the last hour because he’s been getting ready.” He gave her a once over. “Is that a new skirt?”

“Yeah, I made it this afternoon. Got bored and antsy,” Ophelia shrugged. She was nervous. She hadn’t really let herself feel that emotion before she walked into this abysmal penthouse. All the black and grey looked like the hellish twin of Danish minimalism. And  minimalism was the devil’s work. She should give Hamlet a potted plant for their anniversary and watch him have a meltdown about there being something living in his house. But that would be mean. She could at least try to be thoughtful and find him a black or white plant so she didn’t mess with his aesthetic. 

“Have you been here since last night?” Ophelia asked as she draped herself over a square, grey chair.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have,” Horatio was abnormally twitchy. Usually that was a Hamlet trait.

“Did you sleep at all? Or were you too afraid of the ghost of Letta.” Oh, she didn’t really know where those words came from.

“You don’t really think…” he trailed off.

“I don’t think because I don’t believe in ghosts. I thought that was all your deal,” Ophelia quickly corrected herself. It was bad to joke about those sort of things, especially when they hit so close to home. She didn’t believe, but then again, Horatio was far too sensitive to Hamlet’s emotional state to casually make jokes like that.

“Yeah, well. I don’t make shit like that up. Hamlet seems pretty fucked up about it anyway...I wouldn’t ever do something that terrible to him.” Horatio paced around the room.

“I didn’t really think so. But hey, it said it was a joke, right? So there’s nothing to worry about.” Ophelia tried to reason. “Do you think he’s safe?”

“When has Hamlet ever been safe? He’s a walking knot of depression and narcissism,” Horatio snapped before he hid his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not true.”

“Bad night, huh?” Ophelia asked as she walked over the couch where he was sitting. She rubbed his shoulders and tried to be comforting. She wondered if Gertrude knew her actions had an affect on them too. Probably not. It’s not like she could even think for herself. Truthfully, the only good thing about her was her fashion magazine and that was Hamlet’s dad’s. But enough of that, she had a friend to comfort.

“No, it was fine. Everything is just so difficult and I have such a bad hangover,” Horatio groaned. Ophelia smiled and leaned against his shoulder.

“It’ll go away soon,” Ophelia soothed.

“He better not,” Horatio said, and speak of the devil, Hamlet strode through the door and seemed profoundly surprised to see Ophelia.

* * *

Horatio was surprised that he managed to sleep through the night. He supposed, of course, that this probably wasn’t as big deal as he was making it out to be. He wasn’t  entirely  sure he’d seen a razor blade, after all, and it wasn’t like that was an unusual thing for Hamlet to have. Hamlet lost his shit over appearances all the time, especially when it came to shaving, and a three am bath wasn’t a crime. He’d seen Hamlet do weirder. He’d seen all of his friends do weirder. They were all weird.

Horatio had woken up with Hamlet pressed flush to him in the bed.

He was running out of mental excuses.

“Are you ever going to get up?” Hamlet asked from the doorway. His voice sounded bored and altogether uncaring but it didn’t take a detective to see the slight imbalance in his jawline or stance.

Horatio sat up in bed, mindful to keep the sheets pulled around his waist. “Are we going to talk about it?” He asked calmly.

“Talk about what?” Hamlet crossed the room and began to rummage through one of his many drawers. He didn’t look at Horatio.

Horatio wasn’t entirely sure what they should talk about either. Razor blades by the bathtub would be the big one but it was all cause and effect with Hamlet so he settled on the bigger fish to fry. “Your dad.”

Still bent over his drawer, Hamlet seemed to stiffen. Then he scoffed. “Oh, you’re still on that ghost thing? Really?”

Horatio raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Way to deflect, Hamlet. Real slick. “Well that or more generally. You still seem shaken up.”

“I’m fine.” Hamlet’s voice twisted, turning breezy in an instant as he ran a hand through his impeccable blond hair. He stood and walked over to Horatio. Horatio froze as Hamlet smiled at him and brushed a bit of hair from his forehead with delicate fingers. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I…” Horatio struggled for a second to make his brain work again as a large portion of it diverted to how soft Hamlet’s over-moisturized skin was against his own. By the time his mind recalibrated, Hamlet was already out the door. He heard the bathroom door close.

“Shit.” He sighed. So much for that conversation. He pulled his legs up in the bed and shifted uncomfortably. If Hamlet had just grabbed his clothes, it meant that he had at least an hour to kill before Horatio had to worry about talking to him again. He wished he’d thought to bring his play to edit or a book to read. A distraction would be wonderful to have right now. Like any distraction.

Horatio stood from the bed and did his best to straighten his clothing back into a presentable shape before abandoning the effort. As he walked towards the door, the room seemed to spin a fraction and he stopped to lean against the wall. Okay, so still a bit hungover then. He supposed that’s what he deserved for his little wine-mom moment last night. Not that he’d been planning to chug an entire bottle by himself, it was just that sometimes it was hard to deal with Ophelia and Hamlet when they were...like that. Cuddly and openly talking about sex and all that. Which was, of course, completely ridiculous, since they were a couple and Horatio was their friend and should be able to handle being around them together but. Wine. Wine made it so much easier.

He shifted as he adjusted his pants. Or harder. Like, way harder.

As Horatio made his way to the penthouse kitchen, he heard the shower start up. He pulled the fridge open to scrounge for through Hamlet’s excess of healthy, rabbit food in search of something actually palpable. Pop-tarts. Pop-tarts would be ideal. He eventually settled for eggs, making them sunny side up without salt or pepper in the hope that he could coax Hamlet into eating something substantial before the day started.

What day was it anyways? Horatio checked his phone and grimaced. Date Night. Or, well, more accurately, Saturday but always Date Night in Horatio’s head. He sighed and dumped the extra eggs. There was no way he’d be seeing Hamlet before lunch time, after all, if he was getting ready for an evening with Ophelia.

Horatio took his eggs and curled up on Hamlet’s couch, taking care to keep his back to the rest of the apartment and his attention firmly focused on the city street below. Nothing quite as fun as watching his closest friend get dolled up to take his crush out on the town. Horatio sighed and drew his knees up onto Hamlet’s couch, staring morosely out the window. God, he had always been this much of a jealous bitch or was it just because of Hamlet? If only his friend was dating someone other than Ophelia, then Horatio could make an actual effort to steal Hamlet away instead of being miserable all the time. But, then again, that was his fault too. He was the one who decided he liked Hamlet  after  he started dating Ophelia.

It wasn’t like he intended to turn himself into some kind of home-wrecker, though. It was just that he had volunteered to do run crew for that one production Hamlet had starred in and suddenly he found himself spending so much time around him. Alone. Without Ophelia. Watching Hamlet act; the very image of confidence and poise and passion; flinging his voice to the catwalk. Catching lunch between practices and listening to Hamlet talk about his work and ambitions. Walking him home every evening from practice, just the two of them under the hazy lights of New York’s skyline. And, naturally, it didn’t help that the production was an adaption of  _The Great Gatsby_.  If Horatio wasn’t attracted to Hamlet already, seeing him dressed up as Gatsby definitely did it.

Horatio shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth and glared at nothing. But it didn’t matter because Hamlet was dating Ophelia and they were both his friends and no amount of silly, childish feelings or weird 1920’s horniness from him was going to change that. There was no way in hell he was going to be the one to break Ophelia’s heart. He’d rather just suffer and pretend and wait for it to pass.

Because they had to pass. Like, eventually, they had to go away. Right?

No wonder he was starting to find gray hairs.

Horatio leaned back on the couch as he listened to Hamlet fight with a hair dryer. Why did he even want Hamlet anyway? Like really. Sure, the man was smart, talented, and gorgeous but he was also so different from Horatio. So intense and wired and prone to, well...whatever that was that happened last night. Horatio, on the other hand, got actual adrenaline rushes from doing things like discovering loose plot points in his writing. Plus there was the fact that Hamlet never actually talked to him about his issues or feelings, instead choosing to make it some elaborate guessing game of ‘is Hamlet actually okay or is he dying’ every time crisis struck. Why would Horatio want to be partners with someone who never even opened up to him? Surely he had some standards? Some meager amount of respect for himself?

“Horatio!” Hamlet called over the whine of the dryer. “Check my phone! Has Ophelia texted!?”

Horatio was on his feet in a second because, apparently, the answer to that profound question he’d just posed was a resounding no. He wandered over to bed and clicked Hamlet’s phone open, scanning the screen.

“Nope!” He said. “Just, uh, a text from your mom!”

The dryer clicked off abruptly, throwing the apartment into silence. Horatio eyed the bathroom but the door didn’t open and, after a moment, the noise started again. “What does she want!” Hamlet called, voice dripping pure poison.

“She wants to know when your going to call!”

“You can tell her that I’ll call when she stops fucking that-” Whatever particular profanity Hamlet spewed was lost as he cranked up the hair dryer to a high setting.

“I missed that!” Horatio yelled. “Also, I’m not going to type it!”

Horatio sighed and pocketed Hamlet’s phone, figuring the less Hamlet saw messages from his mother the better. Not to mention, he could prevent him from bothering Ophelia too much (or, at least, spare himself the extra torment of watching Hamlet flirt with Ophelia via text). He walked off in search of some magazine or loose script to occupy his time.

It was a few hours later Ophelia arrived, looking phenomenal per usual in a floofy skirt and an air of natural beauty which put Horatio’s plain cut, barely noticeable appearance to shame. Horatio drowned a slight pulse of envy as he let her in.

Their brief discussion was cut short, however, as Hamlet wandered into the room, hair pinned back, half dry and still wearing his bathrobe. As his eyes locked onto Ophelia, Horatio took a step back, debating whether this was the point at which he should politely excuse himself.

“Why are you here?” Hamlet approached Ophelia and stood in front of her. He seemed a touch annoyed in addition to his usual despondency. “We were supposed to meet in two hours.”

Ophelia shrugged, not rising from the gray arm chair. “I was ready and I hadn’t heard from you all day so I figured I’d come over.”

“I’m not done preparing yet.” Hamlet said, gesturing to his state of relative undress, a bathrobe over a pair of well tailored pants. “Besides, I would have texted you but Horatio was holding my phone captive.”

Both Hamlet and Ophelia glanced to him, Hamlet with accusation, Ophelia with a kind of clever curiosity. Horatio smiled awkwardly in return. “After last night, I figured you might want to sleep in so…” He guiltily took the phone out his pocket and passed it to Hamlet.

Twin raised eyebrows. Thankfully, both Ophelia and Hamlet seemed more interested in bickering among themselves than grilling Horatio so he was able to get away with his terrible lie.

Freed from scrutiny, Horatio slinked away to gather his coat just as Ophelia made some comment about heading over to the restaurant early.

“I’m sorry,” Hamlet asserted, “you did realize we’re going to the Ritz, correct, not a Cracker Barrel. You can’t just ‘head over early.’”

“You can do anything if you’re confident enough about it.” Ophelia asserted in return.

Horatio snorted and shook his head. His own conflicted feelings aside, Hamlet and Ophelia did deserve each other. He pulled on his jean jacket and headed for the door.

“Horatio, where are you going?” Ophelia cut him off right as he reached for the handle. Foiled.

Horatio turned back and smiled lightly. “I’m going to head back to the dorm. I’m really beat from last night and I should get some actual work done before the week starts. Unless you two were in need of some couple’s counseling or something?”

That one earned him a glare but Ophelia remained undeterred. “It’s Saturday night.” She said. “You shouldn’t be working on a Saturday night! And since we apparently can’t leave for an hour anyway...”

“Two hours.” Hamlet corrected.

“Two hours.” Ophelia rolled her eyes. “You can hang around. Keep me company while I wait for Lady Gaga over here to finish up.”

“No, that’s okay.” Horatio waved her off. “I really should work on my play some more.”

“You’ve been working and reworking that thing for years.” Hamlet said testily. “Aren’t you done with it yet? The auditions are this week.”

“It needs to be perfect and perfect takes time.” Horatio shot back. He glanced to his watch then back to Hamlet. “And speaking of perfect, you’re burning daylight. Go finish getting changed.”

“Fine.” Hamlet sighed, returning to the bathroom. Horatio released his breath. No more having to avoid looking at Hamlet and his bathrobe, which meant that he could finally move onto the next super fun phase of his attraction, consumptive guilt.

He turned his focus back to Ophelia and smiled again. “See you later?”

“Yeah, if the rich people don’t cannibalize me.” Ophelia pulled him into a hug, which Horatio returned as earnestly as he could. “Go find some people to hang out with, Horatio.” She said quietly. “You shouldn’t be squandering your senior year in a library.”

“Let me be a nerd in peace, Ophelia.” Horatio teased. He stepped back from the hug and rubbed the back of his neck. “‘Sides you and Hamlet are kinda like my only real friends so...” Sucks that you’re dating and constantly leaving me behind, he left unsaid, but Ophelia seemed to pick up on it.

“Go to a party.” Ophelia commanded as she shooed Horatio out the door. “I’m serious, Horatio. You might like being reckless every once and awhile.”

“I save all my recklessness for dealing with Hamlet or fencing.”

“Then you might like being fun for once in your life.” Ophelia quipped. She grabbed the door and leaned her weight against it. “Goodnight, Horatio.”

“Night.”

The door shut just as Hamlet started talking again, leaving Horatio hovering on the doormat. He sighed. “Have a good date.” He muttered bitterly under his breath before walking off in the direction of his dorm. At least now he could go deal with jealousy in relative peace.

* * *

“Osric,” Hamlet said as he approached his driver. Who was also his mother’s butler. Who had been sent to live with him the minute he declared he was going overseas to finish his schooling and would probably never return.

“Evening, sir,” Osric smiled. “Evening, Miss Cortez.”

“Hello Osric!” Ophelia said brightly. Hamlet glowered slightly. He was tired- five hours of prep is a lot, even by his standards. And of course, Ophelia was  not  wearing anything of a high enough price to blend into the crowd. Quite the opposite. A truly magnificent image of Boho-chic sat beside him, which at its most expensive maybe came up around…$100? His underwear alone cost that much, and it was a custom job. Dress code at the Ritz was dressy-casual, for rich business people. Ophelia, as always, was dressy-casual for fey creatures.

“I got you that dress from Versace. Why aren’t you wearing it?” Hamlet hissed as they sat in the backseat.

“I didn’t like it,” Ophelia said lightly.

“How? How can you not like it?” Hamlet asked. How?! It cost more than...who knows. A quarter of this semester’s tuition, depending on financial aid.

“It had an unflattering structure for anyone over a size two,” Ophelia said coldly. “I, Hamlet, am very far from a size two.”

“It’s  _ in _ this season,” Hamlet frowned.

“Not to me,” Ophelia smirked. “I hope you kept the receipt.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Hamlet shrugged. He tapped the glass, and Osric rolled it down. “Osric. Did you keep the receipt for the dress?”

“Yes, sir,” Osric said easily.

“Why?!” Hamlet sighed. “It’s  _ in _ _!_”

“Sir, I didn’t believe it was Miss Cortez’s style, and it was rather a large sum of cash,” Osric said. Hamlet glowered at him as Ophelia grinned.

“See, Hamlet? Osric knows me.”

“Yes, yes. Whatever.” Hamlet huffed. “If we go to the Met Gala, please try to at least wear an acceptable brand there. Or replicate one.”

Hamlet ignored whatever complaint that earned him. His attention was more focused on rallying for the evening. It was date night, and that couldn’t be safely canceled. No matter how badly he wished he could return to being safely tucked under the covers in his bed, with or without another body there to keep him warm. No, it was date night. And even if he  had gone through with it last night he’d probably have had to go.

The Ritz was, well.  _ The _ Ritz. Expensive, glittery. Not quite his scene, but also not  _not_ his scene. It was the right place for Hamlet Louis-Etienne  Kierkegaard, son of obscured Danish nobility and Franco-American current aristocracy. He knew the part. Smile for the cameras, but look just a little bored. Order the middle of the line expensive drinks. Make this look like what it was; a normal Saturday night. Mother would be so proud. She and her stupid fashion empire groomed him for this.

He ordered what he usually did at these places. Some sort of salad, no dressing. Never dressing. This time, it was the grilled yellowfin tuna nicoise. It wasn’t one of the overly decadent meals, because decadence required calories, which might violate the latest trend in dieting. He stuck to the rule his mother taught him once he turned fifteen and was no longer a ‘growing boy’: If it tasted good, it was probably bad for you. Ophelia, of course, lived in no such world with no such rule, and she ordered the fillet mignon. She’d probably get dessert, too.

“What did you and Horatio do this morning?” Ophelia asked over their shared bottle of Merlot. This, he knew, was a leading question. Chances were good she’d already asked Horatio.

“I watched him puke his guts out and cry about books,” Hamlet said without flinching.

“I heard you tried to skip breakfast,” Ophelia countered.

“Useless meal, darling. All you need is coffee,” Hamlet sipped his wine, idly fixing his posture so that the lines of his utterly expensive version of dressy casual: grey silk shirt, open at the collar since he hated ties. Mid-length, angular jacket that wasn’t as restrictive as a suit. Black jeans that were jeans only in the sense they were made of denim; everything about them was tailored to fit as perfectly as dress pants. Underneath it all was the mildly uncomfortable lace boxers that Ophelia simply adored taking off of him, and hopefully by the end of the night she would. That’s what the point of all this was.

“Hamlet, humans need food. Unfortunately, you’re human,” Ophelia sighed. This was less of a fight and more of a reminder that the new movement in the lay-people was body acceptance. That, and eating things like ice cream. Both of which would never happen.

“Yes, sure,” he said, fussing with an imaginary flaw in one of his nails. Oh shit. No, that was a real flaw. A knick in the nail, probably from the mother-fucking razor blade. He scowled as if glaring at it might seal the tiny chip.

“Are you alright?” Ophelia asked. Ah, that was different. Concern, or irritation. He wasn’t doing a good enough job at ‘boyfriend.’ He looked up, fixing his dark eyes on her.

“I have a chip in my nail,” he said. Despite the urge to scream, flip the table, and run to the nail salon, he smiled at her warmly. His ‘I’m the greatest lover you’ve ever had’ grin.

Her eyes narrowed. “You never chip your nails,” she said.

“You sound like Horatio,” Hamlet’s smile faltered. He recovered it. He’d played Romeo before. Not a huge deal. The girl who played Juliet had been much less attractive than Ophelia anyways, and he’d managed it. “I like your blouse,” he said sweetly.

“Thank you!” Ophelia seemed placated. “I made it myself. I did all the embroidery and-”

Hamlet knew he could cut out for maybe five minutes if she started talking about sewing. He nodded and smiled and knew he was being utterly cute, which was more or less what this situation required. He’d just gotten done commenting on how truly realistic the daylily on her sleeve was when the food arrived. He stared at his salad.

“Dressing,” he said, raising an eyebrow. He looked up at the waiter. “Did I ask for dressing?” He asked through his teeth.

“Sir? The salad comes with-”

“Did I  ask for dressing?!” He repeated. “With my words. Did I say, ‘I would like dressing’? Because I-”

“Hamlet!” Ophelia hissed. He shot death at her, but caught an equal measure of danger from her. He sighed and seethed, but sank back down to a simmer instead of a boil.

“Would you like for us to take it back, sir?” The waiter asked patiently. Hamlet did the math. Ophelia already had her food, and he wanted to leave. He would be allowed to leave once Ophelia confirmed that he’d eaten, which meant that the options were to A) send the salad back and wait ten or twenty minutes for the new one. B) Eat this salad and make a mental note to skip breakfast. Or C) throw a fit and insist on leaving now.

He chose B. With Ophelia, there was a right answer, and it was the one that kept her off his back and got him back to the sanctity of his house the soonest. He could probably win the breakfast fight just fine. She wasn’t Horatio, and thus couldn’t literally pry his jaws apart.

“It’s fine,” he said poisonously to the waiter. Once he was gone, he refocused his glare on the salad and all its oily glory. When was the last time he had dressing? Probably last fall.

“Why? Why can’t you be a normal, polite person for one fucking night?” Ophelia snapped. “That poor waiter wasn’t even the person who made the food!”

“I’m eating the salad and I promise to tip him exactly seventeen percent,” Hamlet said bitterly. “How is your steak?” His tone was sharper than Boyfriend Hamlet’s tone really should have been, but what could be done. His nail was chipped and he was eating saturated fat.

“It’s wonderful,” she said, with just a bit of frost.

“I assume you’ll be wanting dessert?” Hamlet said pleasantly. “Seasonal cheesecake this time, or the Ritz-Carlton Cake?” He watched her resolve to be mad at him chip away. Sweets were always a good shortcut to forgiveness.

“The Ritz-Carton Cake,” she smiled. Her smile dipped to a smirk. “And you, of course.”


	3. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia has sex. Horatio deals with the fallout. Hamlet makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you so much for reading so far! As always, we love hearing what you all think! Comments and kudos make out entire day!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: unhealthy consumption of alcohol, suicidal ideation, and accidental self harm

Hamlet really was a needy little bitch and Ophelia was more than happy to teach him a lesson in manners. Right after she figured out what the hell was up with him, that is. Yelling at a waiter? Really? That was...much, even for him. Hamlet Kierkegaard did not yell at random strangers.

Fear. Fear rang in her ears and burned in her fingertips. Why? Why would he just snap? It had been weeks since the actual_ incident _and he never lost it at anyone then. What could have happened that made things worse? That wasn’t true. She knew. She could keep everything squared away until after they were done for the night.

“Are you prepared for auditions?” Ophelia tried to make polite small talk.

“I’ve always been prepared for auditions,” Hamlet deadpanned.

“So you’re not afraid some cocky little first year is going to swoop in and steal all your thunder?” She laughed placed her hand on his thigh, a little higher up than was socially acceptable, but Osric was driving and couldn’t see.

“Never. Some greasy little brat could never hold a candle to my beauty,” Hamlet smirked. It was a good sign. Confidence was one of Hamlet’s hallmarks. Maybe it meant that the display over dinner was just a lapse. It happened to the best of them. It was probably fine. Right? 

“Thank you so much, Osric,” Ophelia said as she stumbled out of the car. These heels were getting really old, really fast. Hamlet said nothing and practically dragged her by her wrist up to his penthouse. As soon as they were in the privacy of his home, she kissed him. In these heels, she didn’t even have to stand on her tiptoes to reach him, not that they would stay standing for very long. Ophelia tried to grab for a necktie that wasn’t there, so she ended up grabbing the front of his designer shirt instead.

She dragged him to his room and pushed him on the bed. She could feel her eyes absolutely glowing. Standing over him, she made him watch as she took off her gold jewelry, letting the light reflect over her skin.

“Strip,” she ordered as she undid the laces of her shoes. It was a change of pace, something that clicked when they were going to have sex, and judging by the grin on Hamlet’s face, they both loved it.

Hamlet dutifully obeyed. While he was preoccupied, she undid the top few buttons of her shirt to reveal the intricate lacework of her lingerie. She had made it, of course, and she didn’t give a damn if Hamlet thought she was a raging feminist or bohemian or whatever. Her craftmanship was _that_ good and every living being should be impressed.

Once Hamlet was dressed in nothing but sheer, lace boxers Ophelia returned to his side. She dragged a hand over his chest letting her nails leave thin white lines that faded in an instant. She kissed the marks away and purred as Hamlet ran his fingers through her hair. She spent a long while kissing the tender spot where his jaw connected with his neck before she pulled away. Ophelia was starting to see Hamlet’s threads unravel. Perfect.

“Is this okay?” she whispered, extremely sure the answer was yes. Hamlet nodded and Ophelia grabbed him by his wrists and placed his fingers on the top button of her shirt. “Then undress me.”

When Hamlet was turned on, his dexterity was considerably lowered, which made his fumbling efforts all the more adorable. The skirt was, thankfully, much easier and soon she was straddling his waist.

“Fuck me,” Hamlet breathed.

Ophelia tried not to laugh. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet.” She reached behind her and traced the indentations of the lace against his cock. She could feel the heat coming off it in waves. For all of Hamlet’s stony stoicism, it was remarkably easy to make him come undone.

Reluctantly, Ophelia got off of Hamlet’s waist and settled herself in between his legs. She kissed up the length of his erection and looked him straight in the eye. She could taste his slightly salty precum on her lips. Judging by the way he curled his fingers into the sheets and threw his head back at her slightest touch, Ophelia wasn’t going to have much to work with very soon.

She slowly took off his boxers and leaned over to kiss his navel. It would have been a wonderful sight, his erection pressed against her tits, if he were looking.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked. She probably should have asked that earlier, but perhaps she wasn’t quite in her right mind either.

“Top drawer next to the lube,” Hamlet said.

Ophelia used the break in contact to take off her lingerie. She threw hers and Hamlet’s into an unceremonious pile, felt bad about it for a second, and then decided she didn’t care.

“First, you’re going to eat me out.” Ophelia commanded. Something darkened beneath Hamlet’s eyes.

“Oh?” he asked, a feeble attempt at being contrary.

“You are,” she took his place on the bed as he moved in between her legs. He had to kneel on the floor to get a proper angle and he looked oh so pretty with his flush cock leaving little smears of precum against his belly. He looked like he as about to argue, but thought better of it.

She could feel the heat of his breath against her vagina as he gently parted her lips. The feeling of his silvered tounge on her clit sent jolts of electricity down her spine. Ophelia gasped as he pressed one finger, then another inside of her. She tangled her fingers in his hair. He looked absolutely reverent with his eyes closed and his free hand splayed over her stomach. As she would have loved to orgasm now and spend the rest of the night cuddling with her frustrated boyfriend, that wouldn’t have been very nice.

After she was satiated, Ophelia pushed him away and returned to shuffling through his nightstand. She smiled wickedly as she returned to Hamlet, condom and lube in hand. She lightly ran her fingers over the sensitive part of his head. It was a calculated play in a game she knew very well. She schooled her face into the picture of calm nonchalance even though she wanted to smile and kiss his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

“Ophelia. Ophelia _please_,” Hamlet begged. It was music to her ears. “Please, I need you to fuck me _now_.”

“I’m going to put the condom on now, okay?” she asked. At this point, it wasn’t really a question. She squeezed two drops of the 4K luxury lube into the tip of the condom before she rolled it, agonizingly slow, down his erection. She rubbed sweet, romantic little circles into the crease of his thigh as he moaned under her touch.

“_Ophelia_, why?” Hamlet gasped.

“Because I like seeing you beg.”

“Please, please fuck me. _Please_.” His words faded to incoherence as Ophelia finally began to ride him.

Ophelia spread her legs and still moved slowly, pressing Hamlet’s hips against the bed when he tried to speed the process along. From there, she stopped thinking about Hamlet and started thinking about herself. At this point, there was nothing she could do that wouldn’t get Hamlet off, so she might as well focus on what made her feel the best.

As she moved, she gently grabbed Hamlet’s chin and urged him to sit up so they were pressed chest to chest. Sure, it made the act of fucking him a little more complicated, but now Ophelia could look in his eyes as he completly lost it. He took his cues well, and as Ophelia kissed him, he ran the pad of his thumb over her nipples. For all of his narcissistic flaws, Hamlet wasn’t a barbarian and knew how to be gentle. Ophelia moaned into his mouth as she felt a bolt of energy settle like honey in the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t...I don’t think,” Hamlet breathed into the crook of her neck.

“What?” Ophelia asked gently. “Use your words.”

“I don’t think I can..._last_.” The way Hamlet’s voice caught on the words made Ophelia certain that neither would she. 

“Then cum for me,” she commanded. Hamlet did and she followed shortly after.

As much as she would have loved to lay in Hamlet’s arms for eternity, she had some technical things she needed to do. She was able to clean herself up in a matter of minutes, but even after sex, Hamlet was still Hamlet so it took him almost an hour to get back in order. Ophelia changed in the pajamas she left in his apartment and had almost fallen asleep against the expensive egyptian cotton of his sheets. She absentmindedly nuzzled into Hamlet’s chest as he wrapped his arms around her. As she lazily opened her eyes so she could kiss him, she noticed truly for the first time the bags under his eyes and the agony that curled in his chest.

“Hamlet, are you alright? Like, actually alright?” she asked as she nuzzled into the crook of his arm. She should have known better than to ask.

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said as he quickly pulled away. No, no he wasn’t. Hamlet didn’t just pull away from attention and affection.

“Really?” Ophelia asked, her pitched upwards. “You don’t really snap at people ever. Definitely not random strangers. Your dad would have thought-”

“Who gives a damn about what my dad would have thought. He’s dead. He doesn’t get to have opinions anymore, as I have been reminded about a million times.” Hamlet turned over and presented her with his back. “I just had a bad day. Let it rest.”

“You’re bad at lying, you know that?” Ophelia felt a prickle of sick and anger stab into her throat, though she couldn’t quite tell where it was directed. “It’s okay to still be upset. We’ve got your back.” She said as she traced her hands down his spine. Silence. “Hamlet, you can talk to us. We’re not going to just shove you away. We can help.” she said as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Please. Please just leave me alone. I don’t want to deal with this. Not now, not ever, okay?” He separated each of his words as if she were a child. “Besides, there’s nothing new.”

“I never said there was something new.” Suspicion and anxiety rose in the pit of Ophelia’s stomach. “You don’t have to lie. I can try to help. I understand.” Ophelia tried to be comforting. “You don’t have to be alone.”

“No, you don't! You don’t understand anything! How on earth could you? You’ve never lost anyone before.” Hamlet snapped, but there were tears. Anger and contempt she could deal with, but Hamlet’s tears were unacceptable.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’ve lost nothing. You and Horatio should just go on living your idyllic little lives and leave me to rot in hell.” The ghostly impression of a laugh filled his throat. “It’s not worth it. I’m just not worth it.”

“That’s not true. Hamlet, you don’t have to do this to yourself.” Ophelia was sure her voice would break. And he knew, too. He knew about her mom and Horatio’s grandmother and everything. Her spine pickled as she tried to keep her emotions under control.

“Are you deaf? Just leave me alone!” Hamlet had his hands clamped over his ears.

“Hamlet!” Ophelia wasn’t quite yelling. “You can’t just shove us out forever.”

“Who cares. It’s only a matter of time before you both figure out that I’m a sham!” Hamlet pushed himself out of bed and Ophelia followed.

There was a bead of helplessness that dripped in her lungs and Ophelia thought it would suffocate her from the inside out. It was an organism which wormed its way between the layers of her lung tissue like a slime mold.

“Then I’ll just leave and spare you the torture of my presense.” Ophelia focused her physical energy on folding her clothes so she could take them home.

“Thank fucking god you can finally take a hint.” The words dripped past his lips, more caustic than bleach. 

Something shattered along Ophelia’s spine. It took all of her self worth to not run to the door and back to Horatio so she could cry out her worries and fears. Instead, she walked, calmly, and paused before she actually left.

“For the record, I’m not mad that you’re still upset. I’m mad that you lied about it to_ us_.” She didn’t mean to slam the door, but she did. This was not good. She knew she only made it worse by leaving. She knew that she should go back in and make sure he was going to be safe, but he was Hamlet and he couldn’t bear to do anything unsightly to himself. Ophelia sneered. She sounded like his mother.

It was difficult not to attract attention as she walked barefoot through the lobby. It wasn’t actually that late and all the bourgeois fuckers who lived there were coming back from their nights out. She wanted to scream at all of them.

“Ms. Cortez?” Marcellus asked from the receptionist desk. “Are you alright?”

She wasn’t crying yet. “I’m fine, Hamlet and I just had a...fight.” It wasn’t really a fight. They didn’t really disagree about anything, but there were no other words for whatever just happened.

“Would you like me to call you a car?” he asked sweetly. “It’s rather late at night and I know your apartment is far away.” He paused for a moment as he tried to read her face. “Money wouldn’t be an issue.”

“No thank you,” she said. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Drop me a line when you get home safely? I’m sure...Mr. Kierkegaard will appreciate it.”

“I will,” Ophelia agreed as she left the building.

The gravel and refuse of the city hurt the soles of her feet, but there was no way she was going to put those fucking heels on again. She’d rather suffer. Ophelia didn’t know what to do, so she called Horatio. Fuck. It went straight to voicemail. All the better, he should be sleeping.

“Hey Horatio, it’s Ophelia. I know you were with Hamlet last night and I think something happened, but Hamlet won’t tell me what and I’m really scared. Uh, call me when you get this and I’ll give you more details. It think it’s bad. Like _bad_. Call me, please. I’m sorry for bothering you. Goodnight.” Ophelia hung up the phone. She hoped he couldn’t tell she was crying.

* * *

Horatio crossed his legs beneath him, chewing on the end of his pen as he scanned the familiar, bent page. He squinted through the abundance of side notes, underlines, and messy annotations, trying to make sense of why exactly he’d been so interested in this page. “Archer…” Horatio mumbled. “Why was I…”

He let his finger lay along a particular passage, which he’d circled and underlined twice. _His whole future seemed suddenly to be unrolled before him; and passing down its endless emptiness he saw the dwindling figure of a man to whom nothing was ever to happen._

Horatio paused. “Well fuck you too, Past Horatio.” He grabbed one of the overflowing notebooks from the side table and jotted down the quote, adding a few additional words about helplessness and societal expectation. He was, unfortunately, stuck on writing his current play version. Again. Trapped by a mislaid plot point, which meant that it was time to reread his entire collection of Lost Generation writers for the third time in the last semester, starting with Edith Warton and _The Age of Innocence. _What better way to spend a Saturday night, after all, than reading about loveless marriages and the consuming desire to be with someone you just can’t have?

He only had till tomorrow to get his play entirely set in time for auditions and he was reading about obnoxious New Yorkers gossiping.

He was coping.

Horatio didn’t even bother to look up as the door handle rattled and one of his roommates walked in.

“Hey,” the tall man said pleasantly, “what’s up?”

“Reading.” Horatio supplied. He glanced up and frowned. “How are you, uh...” he surveyed the man’s dark ponytail and gross acne face, “...Rosencrantz?”

“Guildenstern.” Guildenstern corrected, obviously annoyed. He threw his coat on his bed and walked over to stand beside Horatio’s mess of papers.

“You guys are identical twins.” Horatio defended. “How am I supposed to tell you apart?”

“We’re fraternal.” Guildenstern sighed. He stooped down to glance at the book in Horatio’s lap and paled a degree.

“What?” Horatio asked as Guildenstern set about recollecting his coat. “Are you going back out?”

“Yup.” Guildenstern avoided his eye.

“It’s one in the morning.” Horatio said, glancing to the clock to double check. Not that he was exactly concerned over the late hour. He loved when his roommates stayed other places for the night, and whether those other places were friends’ rooms or street gutters didn’t make much of a difference to him. Still, the shift in Guildenstern’s behavior was a bit too abrupt for comfort. “Did I do something?”

Guildenstern grimaced. “You’re reading Wharton.” He said as if that explained everything in the world. “And I’m, like, really not in the mood to listen to one of your weird incel rants tonight.”

“Excuse you, I’m not an incel.” Horatio said, deeply insulted.

“Who’s an incel?” Rosencrantz asked as he wandered into the room.

“Horatio.”

“I am not an incel!”

Rosencrantz put a hand to his chin and looked Horatio over thoughtfully. “I see it.” He said after a moment of consideration.

Horatio glowered at the pair, just barely resisting the urge to pull his foil out from under the bed. “I’d report you both to the RA if I wasn’t deathly afraid of rooming with a method actor.” He finally said. “Now piss off. I’m working.”

“Sure.” Guildenstern or maybe Rosencrantz said lazily. “See you later.”

“Hopefully never.” Horatio mumbled under his breath.

“Oh and Horatio?” One of the boys paused by the door. “Pick up your phone. Thing’s been ringing like an alarm.” They exited.

Horatio blinked and glanced to his phone, propped on the edge of the bookshelf. He hadn’t noticed. No one ever called him, especially not this late. The only people who even texted were the fencing team, Ophelia, and Hamlet and, by Horatio’s math, Hamlet should be, well...in Ophelia by now. Date night and all. Horatio carefully extracted himself from the nightmarish mess of notepads littering his bed and crossed the room.

Hey, maybe Hamlet had finally broken up with Ophelia. Horatio stopped before shaking his head. That would never happen. It was probably just his mom calling to complain about customers or something.

He listened to the message from Ophelia, a twisting of fear curling into his stomach as he heard his friend crying slightly into the receiver. Horatio quickly pulled back and redialed. The phone rang for about thirty agonizing seconds before Ophelia picked up.

“What’s going on with Hamlet?” Horatio interjected before Ophelia could even say hello. “Is he hurt?” He paused. “Did you need to come over?”

There was a hesitation in which Ophelia seemed to collect herself. “He’s...I’m pretty sure something changed last night or, I don’t know, sometime between now and last date night.” Her voice was shaky. “When I tried to ask him about it, he lashed out at me.”

Horatio thought back to the bathtub last night and the razor. He hoped he’d imagined it, but maybe not.“Do you want to come over?” He repeated evenly.

“What about your roommates?”

“My roommates aren’t home. I drove them off.” Horatio said easily.

Ophelia sighed. “Fine. I’ll be over in a few.”

Being Ophelia, she arrived looking still looking just as stunning as when he’d seen her at four that afternoon. The only things which really served to indicate brewing trouble was her lack of shoes and the livid, terrified expression painted across her face. As soon as Horatio stepped back from the door, Ophelia stalked inside and threw herself down on his bed. Horatio winced as she sat directly on top of one of his notebooks.

“He’s an ass!” Ophelia announced, apparently to no one in particular.

“I mean,” Horatio scooched over and gently tapped Ophelia’s shoulder to make her shift, “we knew that.” He pulled the notebook out from under her and set it aside.

“And he’s going to hurt himself. I know it. I just do.” She continued on, voice tapering into a more solid fear. “He snapped at a waiter and he snapped at me and he wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to help. He just won’t let me help him.”

Horatio groaned. Well, of course he wouldn’t let you help, he thought. He’s Hamlet. He’d sooner die than accept anyone’s honest aid...though a trace of fear laced his neck. Maybe that was a poor choice of words. Sitting on the bed, Horatio put a comforting hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. “He was probably still shaken up from the ghost incident. You know all the bullshit going on with his family. We just need to keep an eye on him, make sure he’s got people around. Maybe you can finally convince him to see counseling services? I mean, if he knows _you _know he’s not coping-”

“I can’t be around him.” Ophelia cut Horatio off firmly. “He wants nothing to do with me. He said I should just let him rot in hell.”

“He what?” Horatio recoiled slightly. That was extreme. Lashing out like that was beyond normal Hamlet levels. Even if he was a jerk sometimes, Hamlet really did like Ophelia. “Why would he say that? That makes no sense.”

Ophelia laughed without humor. Horatio thought she might be crying again. “Because I tried to get him to talk to me. Why else?” She leaned forward onto her elbows and glared at the linoleum. “Deflecting and all that.”

“He probably didn’t mean it.” Horatio offered even though they both knew that Hamlet meant most of what he said when upset. “And, I mean…” He was quickly running out of assurances. “He’s a melodramatic theater kid, you know. They’re all like that.”

“I can’t believe he thinks I don’t care,” Ophelia said poisonously. She shot Horatio an unreadable look, something miserable and partially cold. “Did he ask you to sleep over last night? Did he talk to you?”

Horatio squirmed under her gaze, desperately hoping that his outer facade did not reflect the sudden influx of Kill Bill sirens in his head. “He asked me to since I was already there and he was pretty upset about his dad. You know how Hamlet gets when he’s drunk.” Horatio said. “And I was super wasted so I wasn't exactly eager to come back here and live it up with R&G.”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed minutely before she sighed. “Sorry,” she looked away, “I’m being ridiculous. I’m just upset that he wouldn't let me in.”

“Not at all.” Horatio breathed a sigh of relief. The only thing that could make this night worse, after all, was getting his messy feelings involved. No need to further pulverize Ophelia’s heart with the knowledge that Horatio fantasized about her boyfriend on a daily basis. “This is a difficult situation and Hamlet has always had a hard time opening up.”

“Yeah.” Ophelia agreed. “I’m worried about him being alone.”

“Has he texted you?” Horatio asked.

“No.”

Horatio pulled his own phone from his pocket and checked the lock screen. Nothing. He sighed. “Did you want me to go check on him?” He asked as he watched her face with hawk-like intensity for any sort of shift or indication that she suspected ulterior motives. Not that there were any. Not that, even as he remained overwhelmingly worried for Hamlet, some part of Horatio’s little demon brain was celebrating genuine conflict between his two lovebird friends.

Holy shit, he was the worst.

Ophelia nodded in agreement, keeping her eyes plastered to the floor. She looked plainly exhausted and more than a bit dejected. Horatio placed a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. “We could hang out here till you feel a bit better. Maybe watch a movie?”

“I know the only things you own are terrible documentaries about Virginia Woolf_._” Ophelia complained half-heartedly. She seemed to come to some decision. “Go check on him.” She commanded. “Make sure he’s okay then come back. I’ll wait here, if that’s okay.”

Horatio smiled. “Of course. My house is always your house, Ophelia. If you can stand the weed smell, that is.” He said as he tugged on his jacket. He threw her an appraising look, most of his attention already diverted to working through the best way to get Hamlet to talk. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Ophelia waved him off dismissively and Horatio was glad to see more, well, Ophelia-ness returning to her form. “Don’t let him bully you.”

Horatio actually laughed at that one. “Considering the shit I get on a daily basis? I’m basically immune by now. Be back.”

He closed the door, straightened his jacket more snuggly over his shoulders, and started the walk towards Hamlet’s penthouse. Just a quick check and then he’d be back. No matter how dire things may seem, Horatio knew a crisis when he saw one and a few insults just didn’t fit the bill. Hamlet would probably be back to his depressed but chronically indecisive self within the week. All they had to do was keep an eye on him till then. Maybe argue with him a little or a lot. Probably a lot. But Horatio was decent at that and Ophelia was excellent. They’d make sure Hamlet was safe.

Easy peasy.

* * *

Cool. Okay. Yeah. Raw anger was a feeling that he could hold onto. For about fifteen minutes. Then, once the door was slammed and Ophelia was gone and he was effectively alone, the anxiety set in. Had he really told her to leave him? She’d certainly left in the physical sense. But what if this was _it_? Like, the last time she’d leave? He couldn’t even be angry at her, since he’d been the one to tell her to go.

He had approximately half of his Grey Goose left from last night. If he had to feel bad, he might as well pour salt on the wounds and guarantee that he felt awful tomorrow morning. He grabbed the bottle from the fridge, drinking it straight. What would his mother say? He was standing alone in his room, hair on end, eyes shaded by dark circles, drinking vodka from the bottle. He wasn’t even wearing clothes. Just a more or less open bathrobe draped over his shoulders. She’d probably tell him to put on clothes and drink himself to death in style.

What would Dad say? Hamlet paused mid-swig of vodka. He spat it into the sink. “He’d hate this,” he muttered to himself. He would. His dad was a good person. He believed that love was greater than money, and that people meant more than their net worth. He’d never forced him to care about appearances, and he’d never let him truly buy into his mother’s psychosis about beauty. He’d be disgusted with him now. Hamlet went back to drinking vodka like water.

He lost most of his salad down the toilet and washed his mouth out with even more vodka. Sure, it made sense that his body would be trying to prevent death by alcohol poisoning, but it was amazingly inconvenient. He threw up again, flushing the transparent mixture of vodka and stomach acid down the drain.

Six drink Hamlet felt guilt. Half-pint vodka Hamlet felt complete and utter, soul-crushing guilt. It was also post-midnight. The other time that he generally felt bad, even without help. He grabbed his phone from where it lay discarded on the floor by the bed.

“Shit,” he hissed as he fucked up pressing ‘contacts’ for the third time in a row. “Siri, call Ophelia,” he said into the mic. Siri, to her credit, opened up the contact info for him and all he had to do was press call. It rang. And rang. And rang.

_“Hi! You’ve reached Ophelia Esmerelda Cortez. Please leave a voicemail!”_

“Fuck,” Hamlet said, right before the tone. When he next opened his mouth, he was crying. He was definitely too drunk to be acting, so evidently he was upset. “Ophelia? Listen, I need you to, uh. Listen. Yeah,” he paused to catch his breath. “Stupid eyes,” he hissed to himself, swiping at the tears. He curled up on the carpet. “Ophelia, I said some...things. That are not good words. I should have said-” No, wait. Don’t say the better versions of the words. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, and I don’t wantyou to leave and I need you to call Horatio and tell him I’m sorry and that I don’t want him to go either even though he has no idea about things,” he curled tighter around the bottle of vodka, which was mostly either finished or spilling onto the black carpet. “I don’t want you to leave. I didn’t mean to say those words,” he cried. “I need to go. I need to go before I puke on the 10K carpet.” he dropped the phone and managed to reach the sink.

He returned and was mortified that the phone hadn’t automatically hung up. That probably meant that she could hear him hacking his guts out. He hit the little red button before picking up the empty bottle, glaring at it bitterly. “You were supposed to let me die of alcohol poisoning,” he said at the glass. God. If he weren’t such a pussy about pain, blood, and scars he’d go grab the razor again. He chucked the bottle at the sink, watching it shatter into hundreds of shards. Osric would _hate_ that.

What could he do? He paced around his room, barely upright. He tripped over the belt of his bathrobe a few times and nearly hit his head on the bedside table. He successfully knocked over his unused pills. That was an idea. Mother always said not to mix his Xanax with a night out drinking. He sat on the ground, struggling to pry the child-safe top off the bottle. Apparently CVS also made it drunk-safe.

“Stupid lid,” he muttered to himself, too drunk to care about what this was doing to his nails. He had a mission now, though, and that was to get the lid off these stupid drugs so that, even if he didn’t die, he might at least sleep.

There was a knock on the door. He startled, dropping the pill bottle. “Go away, Marcellus!” He snarled. “I don’t care if Mrs. Valentino needs her beauty sleep!”

“I don’t care either,” the voice said. Not Marcellus. “It’s Horatio. Let me in?”

“No,” Hamlet shouted. “Go away!” The tears were threatening again. And the nausea. He could probably cut the bottle open if he tried hard enough...Nope, nausea first. He returned to the bathroom and puked what he could only assume was the last dregs of Grey Goose from his system. He panted for breath, flushed, then brushed his teeth. Just like he had the other five times. He glanced up, and for a horrible second he realized he wasn’t alone. Just behind him, face marred by blood, was his grey-eyed father. Hamlet felt a hand on his back and he shrieked.

“Jesus Christ!” Horatio removed his hand quickly. “What’s happened?”

Hamlet looked over his shoulder. “My- How?” There was no one there. “I thought-” He looked back to the mirror. All he saw was his own face. He looked to Horatio, who stood awkwardly in the doorway. “How did you get in?” He finally asked.

Horatio’s bright green eyes took in what Hamlet could only assume was chaos. They flickered briefly down his body, Horatio’s embarrassed blush reminding him that he was naked and the robe was open. “Door was unlocked.”

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said sharply. He closed his robe, pulling the belt tightly around his slim waist. He grabbed Horatio by the wrist, guiding him out of the room and into the kitchen. “Leave,” he said bitterly. “Fuck!” He screamed as a bolt of agony shot through his foot. Of course. He stepped on a fucking piece of broken glass. Great plan, shattering a bottle indoors. What could go wrong? He swayed on his uninjured foot and wailed.

“What _happened_?” Horatio asked, tone pitched high with anxiety. He was, of course, wearing his shoes in his apartment like a barbarian. Good for him.

“Please just kill me,” Hamlet cried, leaning on Horatio so as to avoid putting weight on his profusely bleeding foot. “I know you know how.”

“Did you step on glass?” Horatio asked, guiding him back to the bathroom, seating him on the edge of the bathtub. Hamlet nodded. “Okay. I’m going to get the glass out,” he said as he dug around Hamlet’s medicine cabinet.

“You’re going to do _what_?” Hamlet asked through grit teeth. Even if he was nearly black-out drunk, he knew enough to not want anything to touch his injured heel.

Horatio emerged with tweezers, cotton balls, and rubbing alcohol. “I’m going to take out the glass. Unless you’d prefer to do it?” He asked.

“No,” Hamlet shook his head. “No one is doing anything with the glass.”

“I am. Sorry,” Horatio said flatly, gripping his ankle tightly with one hand.

“Hey! Let me go, you fucking psycho!” Hamlet struggled against his grip. Unfortunately, Horatio had at least three inches and maybe an extra twenty-five to thirty pounds on him. And most of that was from doing sporty things like fencing.

“Listen up,” Horatio said with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Ophelia is really upset with you right now and I need to get back to her to make sure she’s not going to dump your ass,” he said bitterly. “To do that, I need to get this fucking glass out of your foot so I can put you to bed. Okay? Now be quiet and hold still.”

Hamlet felt compelled to hold still. Horatio never really yelled at him, and he was drunk and thus easily startled. And very much more sensitive. He watched his friend’s hands carefully. They were warm, and ultimately gentle even if they were restricting his movement. Hamlet cringed as he felt the tweezers grip the exposed portion of glass, clutching Horatio’s arm and shoulder for support.

“Can you count?” Hamlet asked through clenched teeth. He pressed his face against Horatio’s shoulder so that there was no way he could see what was happening.

“Okay. On three,” Horatio paused. “One. Two-”

“Fuck!” Hamlet screamed as the glass was pulled out. “You said three! You were supposed to count to three!” He shrieked, curling up into a protective ball. He was crying again. Which was fantastic for his image of being fine.

“You would have pulled away on three,” Horatio said with a sigh. There was an ugly clattering sound as the glass and the tweezers were dropped in the sink. “Do you have gauze and bandages somewhere?”

“Top drawer,” Hamlet said into his knees.

“Okay,” Horatio said stiffly. “I’m not going to ask why there’s blood on the inside of the drawer. Can I have your foot?”

“No,” Hamlet said coldly. He just wanted to sleep.

“Give it to me anyways,” Horatio commanded. Hamlet allowed his ankle to be grabbed again. “I’m going to bandage it. You should get real medical attention, too,” there was a pregnant pause. “And psychological.”

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said miserably. “I just need to go to bed.”

“Are you going to sleep?” Horatio asked, tone slightly warmer than frigid.

“Yes,” Hamlet lied. He hadn’t slept through the night since his father died. He was, however, completely drunk and exhausted. Maybe he could pass out for a couple hours.

“I promised Ophelia I’d go back and stay with her,” Horatio said coolly. “Do you need help getting into bed?”

“No,” Hamlet said. Of course, the minute he stood and tried to walk he nearly fell, slipping on his bloody foot. Horatio caught him around the waist and guided him the last ten feet to the bed. Hamlet curled up under the layers of heavy blankets, uncaring that he was still in his bathrobe and that he’d missed all of his nighttime skincare routine. Horatio sat beside him on the bed for what felt like several minutes, but was probably a matter of seconds.

“I don’t want her to leave,” Hamlet muttered. He really hoped Ophelia didn’t leave him. Sure, he was probably just a sex object to her, what with him being a pathetic expression of ‘capitalistic beauty standards.’ “I don’t want to be alone,” he said sadly. To her, he probably had no authentic bearing as a person. He was a capitalist show dog; a living, breathing act of transmutable performance art. Like his mother. He didn’t want to deal with loneliness. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“You’re not alone.” Horatio sighed as he got up. Hamlet considered, in his alcohol-dimmed state, grabbing his hand and insisting he stay. He thought better of it. “...Try to call if you need help. Don’t do,” Horatio paused, gesturing at the room. “This. Again.”Hamlet dug his fingers into his sheets to prevent from reaching out. No use adding to the morning guilt at this point.

With that, he was gone.


	4. Word Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia calls Laertes. Horatio doesn't deal with feelings. Hamlet has a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you're all enjoying what we have so far, and I'm sorry that this is getting posted late! I may have to switch the posting times slightly, since with the semester starting KnightVanguard, timeandspaces and I all have weird schedules. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Conversations about death and mental health; hangovers.

Ophelia allowed herself to cry for ten more minutes before deciding she was done. There were three things she could do at a time like this. Option one: drink herself into oblivion and decide the ensuing hangover was divine punishment for her misdeeds. Issue, none of the alcohol in this room was hers and that would be wrong, not to mention hazardous to her health. Option two: go the fuck to sleep and stop worrying because this actually wasn’t that big of a deal. Issue, she was way too nervous. Option three: call Laertes. Issue, it was almost 2AM. Solution, she didn’t care.

He picked up after the first ring. “Hello, dearest brother of mine,” Ophelia said, trying not to sound abjectly miserable.

“What happened? Why are you up?” Laertes did not sound tired in the slightest.

“Boy problems. Why are you up?”

“Engineering problems. Was it Hamlet? I can send the fencing team to beat him up. They’d be happy to after what happened last time. Well, except for Horatio, but you know.” Laertes gave a half-hearted laugh. “I keep telling you you’re too good for that bitch.”

“You’re just jealous because you don’t get to tie him to your bed anymore.” Ophelia liked teasing her idiot twin brother. It almost felt like this night could be normal.

“I am not gay,” Laertes knew what was up. He only ever brought up that particular point when he was trying to make her feel better.

“Your graphic descriptions of your sex life beg to differ.” Ophelia almost smiled.

“It’s not gay if you’re on top. Besides, at least I didn’t date my twin sibling’s ex.”

“At least I’m not stuck with Roman ideals of sexuality.” She felt her voice drop. Time for real conversations where she had to act like a real person and not some paper-doll pinup.

“You don’t just call at 2AM over nothing. What happened? Are you safe?” She wanted Laertes with her right now. He was better at reading her expressions and then she wouldn’t have to talk. She could just cry and he would understand. No, she decided. No more crying.

“I’m fine. Hamlet is just having an awful time with his mom and uncle and shit, but I’m fine. I’m really worried about him.” When she said it like that, it almost didn’t sound that bad.

“You’re always worried about Hamlet. He’ll probably be fine. I’ve never seen him take any sort of initiative in his entire life. He just talks because he thinks the only feeling he should be allowed to feel is pain.” Sometimes it was easy to forget that Laertes had known Hamlet for almost as long as she had.

“It’s different this time. He lashed out and he never lashes out at random people. It’s usually only me or Horatio and we can get over it because we  know .” Ophelia wasn’t strong enough to keep the tears from her voice. Knowing or not, it was still hard.

“That is strange,” Laertes sounded surprised. “Have you talked to him about seeing a counselor? It might help.”

“I don’t know. Why does that matter? He’s just going to keep tearing himself to shreds and there’s not a single damn thing I can do about it. He said I should let him rot in hell. He won’t let me care about him. I know it’s been hard for him and I just want to help him get help. Real help. Not just me and Horatio philosophizing over wine.” No amount of logical thinking was going to stop her from hyperventilating.

“I need you to take a few steps back. He said you should what?” This was Laertes’ speciality: reframing her fears so she was forced to look after herself. If only she could figure out how to do the same for Hamlet. She couldn’t lie to him.

“Leave him to rot in hell. He wants me to leave him in hell. Horatio, too,” Ophelia whispered. For all she knew, Hamlet had some intense internal monologue about how she and Horatio didn’t actually love him as a person and they were both somehow using him for his fame or money or whatever. Of course he did, he was Hamlet. “I’m scared he thinks I’m just using him. And I’m not. I thought he would be it.”

“I know.” If Laertes were there he would have hugged her. She missed her brother so much. “It’s not the end of the world. You should just talk to him about it; about how it made you feel. You can’t force him to care about himself, Ophelia, but you should expect him to care about you. Part of caring about you is taking your worries seriously, right?” he sighed. “If he decides he doesn’t care, then he doesn’t care and you should leave him because I don’t think you can be with someone who doesn’t care.”

“But I--”

“Ophelia, let me rephrase. You deserve to be with someone who cares about their own wellbeing as much as you do. You can’t keep killing yourself over people who just don’t give a damn. Like hell I’m going to watch you do that again.”

“If something happens it’ll be my fault.” Ophelia didn’t realize she had slid off Horatio’s bed and pressed her back against the cool metal frame.

“No. No, we’re not doing this again. Hamlet is the only person who can decide what Hamlet does. You can only do your best, and trust me. You  are  doing your best. Everything else is out of your hands.”

“I could always do more--”

“Ophelia, sometimes you just can’t. Or you could, but it comes at the cost of hurting you. No one else is worth that. Your first priority is to yourself. Do you believe me?”

“No.” Ophelia could not lie to her brother. Anyone else was fair game, but not him.

“Some day you will. I’ll just keep reminding you until you do.” Laertes said sadly. “Do you have a game plan?”

“I’m going to wait until tomorrow morning and see if he sends anything. Then I’m going to ask if we can meet up to talk about what happened. Assuming he doesn’t have a complete meltdown, I’m going to suggest he see a counselor or something. We have so many free counseling sessions. Arts kids are kinda off the rails, man.”

“Yeah, you don’t see me tramping on over to Parsons or Juilliard every other day,” Laertes laughed for real this time.

“Not recommended. The only normal ones are music kids and that’s a bit of a stretch. And they don’t even go to my school. I’m stuck with visual artists all day.”

“Music kids only seem normal because they have all their nervous breakdowns in practice rooms away from the public eye. Not my fault you’re a squishy artist at Parsons.”

“Very true,” there was a long pause. “Do you think this all has to do with his dad...you know…” Ophelia asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it,” Laertes admitted. “He’s always been a bit...much. Even when I was dating him and everything was his version of fine. But for him to actually  do something that could mess with his image...”

“I remember what it was like when Mom…”

“Yeah, but we kids. Dad tried it best. And it might have been good for us when we were that young...in a way. Hamlet’s situation is...different. Not to be dramatic, but his dad was the only good thing about his family life. If I had a mother like that, I’d go insane too.”

“He’s not insane.”

“No, certainly not.” Another pregnant pause. “Do you want me to come over tomorrow? I can finish most of my work up tonight. I’ve got a new bottle of Pinot Noir. I’ll let you rant to me about authentic whalebone corsets.”

A genuine laugh from Ophelia. She didn’t think it would be possible tonight. “I’ll let you know how my talk with Hamlet goes. Then I might have to take you up on your offer of wine anyway. Polo--Dad is driving me up a wall.”

“Were you really going to call him Polonius? To  me ?” Laertes asked.

“Listen, I see him more in the shop than I do at home. I’ve started referring to him as Polonius in my head. It’s terrible. I don’t know how he still has this job. He’s terrible and old school and I hate it,” Ophelia huffed.

“He’s getting old. You’ve seen his files. He was really something back in the day.” Ophelia heard Laertes kick his legs up on his desk.

“The day called, it wants it’s outmoded costume classification system back,” she laughed at her own joke. Pretty pathetic, but better than crying.

“Tell him I say hi?” Laertes asked.

“Of course.”

“Are you going to be okay if I go to sleep?” His voice dropped back to its serious tone.

“I’ll be okay,” Ophelia reassured him. “I feel a lot better and Horatio will probably be back soon. As long as I don’t run into his batshit roomates I’ll be fine.”

“The weird twins?” he asked with a shutter.

“Some people think we’re weird twins,” Ophelia smiled.

“Not as weird as those two. Goodnight, try not to impersonate me while I sleep.”

“I’ll do my best. Goodnight, I love you.” she said

“Love you too, see you tomorrow,” and Laertes hung up.

The sudden sense of loneliness hung around her shoulders like damp velvet. She wished she could have stayed on the line so she knew there was another person around. She scrolled through her phone. There was a voicemail from Hamlet. And it was completely incomprehensible, but he felt bad? Probably? She could call him in the morning. It was probably a good(ish) sign that he felt some amount of guilt. Was he vomiting? Great. That’s just what a chronically depressed Hamlet needed. More alcohol. Fucking fantastic. She could talk this over with Horatio and everything would be fine.

Now, she just needed to wait for Horatio to come home. He promised he would come back for her. Shit probably just happened at Hamlet’s place. That would make sense. He probably got it under control. They could talk in no time.

But all Ophelia really wanted was to hug her brother.

* * *

He closed the door carefully and stood in the hall for a moment to make sure that Hamlet really was asleep, not just lying in wait for Horatio to go so that he could drown more alcohol or paint his drab walls bright red. There was no movement, however, which left Horatio free to head towards the elevator. He’d considered hanging around the apartment proper, maybe spending some time cleaning up the broken glass or purging the place of sharp objects and calorie-deficient alcohol but realistically, Horatio knew it would probably only serve to push Hamlet further away if he did. If Hamlet was intent on hurting himself, he’d do it regardless of anything Horatio said or did. It would be better for them to let him reach out first and Horatio lugging fifteen pounds of razor blades, sleeping pills, and vodka back to his dorm would just worry Ophelia.

As the elevator door closed, Horatio leaned back against the plush wall and eyed the descending floor numbers with disinterest. Ophelia hadn’t been fucking around. This was a  lot . Even by Hamlet standards. Horatio ran a hand through his hair and sighed. A small pit was beginning to form in the base of his stomach that he couldn’t seem to shake.

One problem at a time. He’d set Hamlet up for the night and hopefully the excess of drinking and pain would be enough to keep him asleep until at least eight. Now all he had to do was go be with Ophelia for a bit, give her a shoulder to cry on depending on how well she was handling things, and then they’d figure out what to do about the Hamlet situation tomorrow.

As the elevator ticked down to the lobby, Horatio smothered any stray anxiety present on his face. “Marcellus,” he greeted the night guard.

“Hello, Horatio.” Marcellus replied. “How’s Mr.  Kierkegaard?”

“He’s, uh,” Horatio hesitated, “he’s having a rough time tonight. I need to head back to school but I was wondering if you could keep an ear out for me? Normally I’d call his butler but it’s fairly late and I already feel bad for Osric having to babysit him all day.”

“Of course.” Marcellus looked a touch nervous but remained professional. “I’ll take a few walks by his pent before my shift is up.”

“Thank you.” Horatio said gratefully. “Goodnight. Morning. Whatever.”

While Horatio normally set aside the walk back from the penthouse as a time to stew, turning over odd looks and long pauses and bits of arguments to analyze incessantly for hints of Hamlet’s true mood and disposition, tonight he thought of nothing but how much he should tell Ophelia. Even the fact that he’d seen Hamlet near to completely naked did little to bother him. Apparently, his rampant horniness fell apart in the face of crisis. Good to know.

The dorm loomed before him and Horatio retrieved his key card from his wallet to swipe into the building. When he unlocked his door, Ophelia sat up from the bed and met him with an intense stare.

“How is he?” She asked hurriedly. Horatio winced slightly as he saw the faint traces of tear lines running down her cheeks. “Has he said anything else? Is he okay?”

Horatio briefly considered lying to her before remembering that he absolutely sucked at being discrete. “Okay? Not really, no. He’s honestly a wreck. But he hasn’t done anything drastic on purpose.”

“On _purpose_? He’s  hurt himself?” Ophelia pressed insistently.

“Well, he...did manage to get quite a bit of glass lodged in his heel.” Horatio admitted under her piercing gaze. “He was also drunk and puking but I got him to bed. With any luck, he’ll be asleep for a long while but, you know. Keep your phone volume up. I also asked Marcellus to give his apartment a once over.”

Ophelia cursed under her breath. “I said I’d call him in the morning. He left a voicemail.”

“Saying?” Horatio walked more fully into the room and sat by Ophelia. He wrapped his arms around her as she leaned into him with a sigh.

“I don’t know,” Ophelia’s voice was wired with misery, “he sounded completely fucked up. I think he apologized.”

“Well, that’s good?” Horatio thought so anyways. It could also be very bad if Hamlet felt too guilty. There was a proper balance. Enough guilt that he stayed safe, if not for his own sake then for theirs, but not so much guilt that he chugged vodka like soda pop or tore open his wrists. The stray reasoning made Horatio squirm. He just wasn’t sure exactly how much of what happened tonight was really Hamlet’s fault and how much was a deadly cocktail of depression, self-esteem problems, and mommy issues. In any case, it was worrying in the extreme.

“Yeah.” Ophelia agreed. “I called Laertes.”

“And how is your brother?” Horatio asked, trying to keep his voice light. Ophelia calling her brother at two in the morning. Not a good sign. “Still straight?”

“Completely.” Ophelia snorted.

There was a long pause in which Horatio shifted so that Ophelia could drape herself halfway across his lap. He fiddled with her hair while she appeared to think deep, profound thoughts. Around them, the dorm hummed with the energy of the returning party crowd. Horatio thought he could hear someone blasting  Party in the USA  a few doors down accompanied by the creak of a shifting mattress. He frowned. Whoever thought sticking eight hundred arts students in one building was a good idea must have been out of their mind.

“Do you think you’re going to break up with him?” Horatio asked without really meaning to. He felt guilty almost immediately as Ophelia’s expression sharpened and shattered in one breath.

“I...I don’t know.” She said softly. “I want to try talking to him again.”

Horatio nodded, riding waves of both relief and disappointment. That probably meant no. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he couldn’t tell. On the one hand, Horatio wouldn’t have to coach Ophelia and Hamlet through two separate break-up break-downs at once. On the other hand, well. Horatio shouldn’t be so selfish but it would make his life easier in the long run if they finally split. No more being left behind, ignored, or shoved aside for the sake of romance. No more dealing with the two most aggressively passionate people he’d ever met trying to coexist as a unit. And no more hearing about their collective sex life. He let the wave of guilt the thoughts made crash over him without protest.

Horatio didn’t want to see either of his friends hurt. And he especially didn’t want to hurt them.

“That’s a good idea.” He said evenly. “Give him some space tonight and talk it out tomorrow. You’ll be able to get a better read on the situation when you’re not sleep deprived.”

“Do you think I should break up with him?” Ophelia asked suddenly.

Horatio grimaced. “I think you should follow your gut.” He said, perhaps a bit too coolly. “You’re the great and powerful Ophelia Cortez. I think we both know that the best opinion is always yours.”

Ophelia smiled at him. Success. “You flatter me.” She said. “I’m just...I’m worried about him. I mean, what if I broke up with him and-”

“He’d be fine.” Horatio interjected, a small bite of anger lacing his reasoning despite his efforts to push it off. “He’s got plenty of lifelines if he’d ever stop being a masochist long enough to use them, and it’s not your job to save him. If he hurt you, then you have full rights to leave or take a break or do whatever you need to do for yourself.”

“Yeah…” Ophelia said quietly. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right.” Horatio corrected as he silently thanked Laertes for talking sense into Ophelia. There was no way she would have caved so soon if he was doing the convincing alone. With over exaggerated movements, Horatio stood and stretched before moving to retrieve his laptop from the desk. “Now. What fashion movie do you want to watch?”

Ophelia glanced to the clock, which blinked out 4 am. “Don’t you have work in the morning?” She asked in concern.

“Yes.” Horatio said. “But I don’t mind staying up with you.”

Ophelia’s gaze softened as Horatio smiled encouragingly at her. “I wouldn’t make you do that.”

“I want to.” Horatio loaded the computer and pulled up one of the college’s free movie sights. “You pick. I’m hopeless with movies.”

“Because you only ever want to read books and plays, dumbass.” Ophelia teased. She sat up and took the computer from him. “We’ll watch something quick then I’ll head out.”

Horatio didn’t comment when she picked a three hour long documentary on hoop skirts.

* * *

Drunk dreams are never quite right. Not that sober ones are real either, but the drunk ones are always weird. This one was...in France? Some coastal European country. Hamlet was distinctly aware that he was a kid in this dream, even if he felt mentally more or less the same as he did now that he was twenty-one. He saw his mother and father, and ran to them. Mother didn’t seem to see him, but Dad did. He bent down to, as Hamlet assumed, pick him up. Then the dream shifted. It was dark. Hamlet was himself. His father was on the ground, bloodied and torn. He reached towards him, blond hair stained dark with blood. A car accident maybe? A gun wound? Mother never let him see the body, let alone hear the cause. Hamlet reached out and took his father’s hand, bending down to be near him. He must have been crying, since his father reached for his cheek.

“Dad?” Hamlet asked, voice frail and faint. His actual voice. No bravado or trained confidence. “What happened?” His father clutched his hand, pulling him close; so close that Hamlet could smell the metallic stench of blood and fear.

“Hamlet,” his father choked out, voice wet and mangled.

“I’m here,” Hamlet sobbed, carefully wrapping his other arm over his father’s shoulder. “Dad, I’m here. What happened?”

There was a pause. His father was fading; Hamlet could see the life slipping from his blue eyes. Oh, how he wished he’d inherited those instead of the dark eyes of his mother. His father pulled him closer still, gripping the front of his shirt. “...Murder. Men in the windows,” he said. His eyes went grey and cold, and his grip turned slack.

With that, the dream shattered and Hamlet woke up heaving.

“Sir?”

“Get out!” Hamlet shrieked at Osric. He was...vacuuming. And it was awful. Hamlet curled back onto his side, covering his ears with his hands. It was too early and he was too hungover to be subjected to vacuuming. Or to nightmares that left him cold and crying. He uncoiled slightly as he heard the vacuum shut off.

“Sir, Marcellus called me this morning,” Osric said lightly. He sat at the foot of his bed, straightening the sheets slightly. “What’s going on?”

“Marcellus is a bitch,” Hamlet moaned.

“No, Marcellus works for your mother,” Osric corrected easily. “He was employed, however, by your father.”

“He’s a night manager,” Hamlet said, now interested. He sat up, watching as the room spun slightly. “He works for the hotel.”

“Yes,” Osric nodded. “He works for the hotel at night. With an agreement that, for an additional $10,000 every quarter, he checks specifically on your safety each evening.”

“I hate my mother,” Hamlet muttered.

“Once again, sir, she only pays him. He was vetted and hired at your father’s wishes,” Osric stood. “Explain to me why there is blood on your floor,” he commanded.

“I stepped on glass,” Hamlet answered, getting up slowly. God, his mouth felt like death. His skin too. With a shock of terror he realized that he’d not only forgotten to moisturize, but he hadn’t even washed his face properly. He hadn’t showered, either, with meant that he was dirty and his skin was dry.

“Do you need stitches?” Osric asked.

“I don’t know. Do I look like a doctor?” Hamlet asked sarcastically.

“I have EMT training,” Osric said calmly.

“Why?” Hamlet asked suspiciously. “You’re a glorified nanny.”

Osric smiled. “Glorified is the key term, sir,” he said with a smirk. “Do you have any idea how much money your mother pays me?”

“No,” Hamlet said flatly.

“Enough to make it worth my while to have three degrees and four different certificates,” Osric said patiently. “Let me see your foot.”

“I’d rather not,” Hamlet said, though he couldn’t work up the energy to put any heart into it. Osric came over, pulling on a pair of glasses.

“Sit,” he commanded. Hamlet sat on the bed, arms crossed over his chest tightly. He glared at Osric. He was middle-aged, but his hair was nearly entirely grey. His dark eyes gleamed behind the spectacles. He took Hamlet’s ankle much more gently than Horatio had, and his hands were steadier as they peeled back the bandages. “Oh, this isn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting,” he said with a smile.

“What, not impressed?” Hamlet asked. “I can go step in more if you want.”

“Actually, you cannot. I cleaned up all the shards that were on the floor,” Osric said as he headed into the bathroom to get fresh gauze and bandages. “I’d keep an eye on it for swelling, and clean it twice a day. Perhaps avoid the gym.”

Hamlet rolled his eyes. “Maybe I don’t  want to cancel my appointment with Francisco,” he said sharply.

“Your personal trainer would not let you work out if he knew that you had an open puncture wound,” Osric said easily.

“Who said I’d tell him?” Hamlet challenged.

“I make all your appointments, sir,” he said. “And I am legally obligated to insure your safety when I work for you.”

“I could call him,” Hamlet pouted. He didn’t really feel like working out. He was just tired of feeling like he was losing.

“You don’t have his number,” Osric finished patching up his foot. “Would you like to tell me about your night?”

“No,” Hamlet said, bristling at the directness.

“Very well,” Osric said as he stood. “And the nightmare?”

“...How did you know about that?” Hamlet asked, a knot forming where his stomach should be.

“You were sleep-talking,” Osric said easily, picking up discarded pieces of clothing off the ground and into a laundry basket. “About your father, right?”

“I…” Hamlet knew how to lie. He was very good at lying. “Yes.”

“It’s on your mind?” Osric said patiently. Hamlet laughed hollowly.

“No, I’ve managed to completely recover from having him end up dead under mysterious circumstances three weeks and five days ago,” he said sarcastically. The humor only rubbed salt in the wound. “Do you think he was murdered?” He asked quietly, picking at a seam on the robe.

“Pardon?”

“My dad,” Hamlet said, a little louder. “Do you think he could have been killed?”

Osric paused, looking him over with his steely eyes. “It sounds a bit fanciful.”

“But he  could have been,” Hamlet said as he stood up. “Why else would Mother refuse to let me see the body? Or hurry the funeral so fast.” He froze. “It was closed-casket, too.”

“Sir, it makes sense that you would be feeling considerable stress right now,” Osric said slowly. “But it’s best to let dreams be dreams. Paranoia won’t help.”

“It’s not paranoia if it’s right,” Hamlet snapped.

“Sir, it’s paranoia until it’s proven right,” Osric said calmly. Hamlet sighed.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“It is...about 8AM, sir,” he said, glancing to his watch.

“And it’s Sunday?” Hamlet asked.

“Correct.”

“Okay,” Hamlet nodded. He should probably call Ophelia. Maybe not. Horatio? He was working. Auditions weren’t until the afternoon. “Has anyone called?”

“Not while I’ve been here,” Osric said as he went about putting everything back in its proper place.

Hamlet glanced to his phone, which was now safely placed on his nightstand. He picked it up, unlocked it. Sure enough, he had a text. He opened it up.

_ 6:17 AM_

_ Hey, just checking in after last night. Ophelia wants to call you this morning. Tell me if you need me to stop her. _

Hamlet stared at it. He couldn’t remember too much of last night, just that he’d said some things, stepped on glass. Horatio had seen him naked, so that was exciting. For him, probably. Hamlet couldn’t care less.

_ 8:08 AM _

_ Cool. Thanks for letting me know. _

There. Now Horatio had confirmation that he was, in fact, still alive. Unfortunately. And it also meant that whatever prep he needed to do in order to feel human again had to be done ASAP, since Ophelia could be calling any time between now and noon. He threw his phone onto the bed and got started.


	5. Auditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia worries. Horatio chooses a play. Hamlet cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thanks for sticking with us so far, and sorry for some of the weird mix-ups with posting. 
> 
> We will be changing our updates to just being Thursday and Sunday due to my semester schedule. Sorry! 
> 
> Trigger warnings for: Mild infidelity?? If thats a CW

When did it become appropriate to call your possibly suicidal, definitely hungover boyfriend to talk about feelings? Auditions started at 5:00PM, so before then. And she had to see Hamlet at auditions, not to mention actually sit through them the entire time. She was thrilled to the stars that Horatio finally,  _ finally _ got to direct his play, but that meant she actually had to care about the entire process and not just the costumes.

11:00AM probably wasn’t too early. Osric the miracle worker had probably been in and out already, so Hamlet was probably awake and probably coherent enough to understand what he was saying.

She manually typed his number into her phone. It gave her the last few seconds to decide whether or not this was going to be a horrible idea. God himself did not smite her down, so it would probably be some level of manageable.

“Hello?” Hamlet sounded immaculate, which was almost as bad as if he sounded like a wreck.

“Hey Hamlet, it’s Ophelia,” she took a deep breath and intended on continuing, but he cut her off.

“Did you get my message?” He asked.

“Yeah, I did. Thank you for apologizing.” Words were suddenly extremely difficult. “Do you, like, want to meet up and talk about what happened?” Ophelia could practically feel him tense up from across the city.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” Hamlet’s voice sounded clipped.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Ophelia forced herself to breathe. She was in control of her emotions and that meant that she couldn’t corner him into talking about his own. But what would make him feel cornered? She had no idea. “Do you understand why I was upset?” Great, she sounded like her father.

“I was awful to you. I’m sorry.”

The words rang in her ears. “Well, that. But mostly the use of...lashing out to distract from you being hurt.” More tension from the other line. God, she was worse at this than she thought. “What I mean to say is, I’m sorry for backing you into a corner because I got scared. I can’t make you do anything or talk about anything or...anything really.”

“Ophelia--”

“I just really need you to know that I care about you. As a real person and not just as the parts you play. We both do; me and Horatio.”

“Ophelia, I know. I’m fine now,” Hamlet said. He certainly sounded fine. It took everything in her power not to ask him if he was sure.

“How has your day been?” Ophelia asked awkwardly. She really didn’t want to hang up even though she knew she would have to when he got ready for auditions.

“Uh, pretty wretched. I threw up a lot.” Maybe Hamlet was trying to make jokes? It was kinda hard to tell what mood he was going for.

“Ready for auditions?”

“I was born ready,” Hamlet said. “Actually, do you know what Horatio’s play is about? It’s a little weird going into an audition and having absolutely no idea what I’m auditioning for.”

“The male lead?” Ophelia added, unhelpfully.

“Obviously, but he’s been working on it for  years . You would think one of us would know what it’s about,” Hamlet said. This was normal. It sounded normal. This was good. So why did Ophelia still feel terrified?

“I can text him for info. I need it anyway to start making sketches,” Ophelia shrugged.

“That might be nice.” A non-awkward pause.

“Do you want to go out with me and Horatio after everything’s wrapped up? I haven’t talked to him yet about what exactly, but we should do something to celebrate. Nothing too crazy, since it’s a school night,” she added quickly. She hoped the implication went over his head. It probably didn’t. He could see right through her. She wanted to scream at herself.

“Yeah, sounds like it’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, totally fun. I’ll see you then?” Ophelia asked.

“I’ll see you then.” And Hamlet hung up.

Ophelia wanted to throw herself into her bed and scream and keep screaming until her voice gave out. She said everything wrong and now he hated her and the only reason he didn’t dump her was because he was so cripplingly lonely. And there was still so much time until she was accountable to anyone else.

Okay. Ophelia could organize her thoughts. Mission one: Text Horatio about the play. Then she’d have a reason to text Hamlet. Mission two: Distraction. There were a ton of things she could do, but for once she didn’t feel like sewing. She thumbed through some papers until she found her schedule. All her readings were done. Oh, she needed to do some upkeep on her art blog. That could take a couple hours, depending on if people wanted to be competent or not. Okay, that worked. That sounded like a plan.

_Hey. What’s your play about? Ham and I have to do our homework._ Horatio may or may not text back. He was probably busy getting everything ready for the auditions. She could always help him, but she didn’t know what to do. Showing up too early and being in the way would be pretty terrible. She decided she could show up an hour early and help from there.

Now, her blog was a different issue entirely. It had been far too long since she answered any questions. She had about a week’s worth of drawings to queue and she really should fulfill a few requests to keep the masses happy. Knowing people, it would probably be some superwholock fanfic B.S., but hey, it kept the masses happy and was usually harmless.

Ophelia scrolled through her asks. Most were pretty basic questions about methods and materials, which were easy: A Leuchturm sketchbook, polychromos pencils, and watercolors of indeterminate brand because she tended to mix and match. Others were more accusatory. Why did she draw so many elaborate costumes? Easy, she was a costume designer. A real life costume designer. Because those did actually exist. It was amazing how many people thought they didn’t. Then there was anon hate, which was ignored. And non-anon hate, which was blocked and ignored.

There were a couple requests for things that were outside the typical “ship doing something romantic” mold. Ophelia was particularly compelled by the request for portraits of the Les Mis with a heavy dose of flower symbolism. She would take it. After all, there was nothing she adored more than drawing sad French revolutionaries. Who was she kidding? She didn’t have an annual Les Mis watch party for nothing.

She clicked through a page of Victorian flower symbolism. Some of it was wonderfully complex. Art, revolution, and flowers. What a delightful combination. Ophelia took stock of her materials and ideas. She could probably finish one portrait before she had to go to auditions. Perfect. This would be fun. Anything for a little bit of distraction.

* * *

Horatio squatted in one corner of the theater with a mound of thinly organized papers spread out in front of him. He hovered a hand over one stack then another before tracking back to a third. He hesitated. “This one.”

Across from him, Professor Cornelius startled, rousing himself from a half-sleep. “That one?” He asked hazily, blinking away any indications that he hadn’t been paying attention to Horatio’s three-hour struggle. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Horatio said firmly before wavering. “No. I don’t know.”

“Horatio.” His directing advisor said with a touch more irritation than kindness lacing his voice. He waved a hand towards the still empty stage. “We are holding auditions for your play  this  afternoon. Less than two hours from now there will be students lining up to try and snatch the role of leading man and lady. Please tell me that I’m going to at least be able to tell them the  names  of the characters they’re auditioning for.”

“Names.” Horatio twirled a hand over his paper empire and plucked out a sheet. “Denton, Imogen, and Maria for the leads.”

“Excellent.” Professor Cornelius sighed. “And--”

“Or Gabriel, Elizabeth, and Hope.” Horatio paused and pulled out another page. “Or I could do-”

“Two hours, Horatio.” Professor Cornelius stressed. “We have two hours. Make a decision. You’re supposed to be good at those.”

“I am.” Horatio said defensively, even as a small worm of panic continued to wriggle its way through his gut. “But this production needs to be perfect and I don’t think any of them are perfect yet.”

“Well,” Professor Cornelius sighed and pulled a packet forward, flipping through it loosely, “you have thirty-two-”

“Fifty-two.” Horatio corrected.

Professor Cornelius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fifty-two.” He said at a higher pitch. “Fifty-two alterations on a general concept of self vs. societal control. Now, I have been your academic advisor for the last four years and I can personally testify that your writing, as a whole, is phenomenal. I trust that any of these versions would be well worth putting into production. So, what we’re going to do,” he set down packet number forty-six, “is you’re going to close your eyes, hold out a hand, and pick one at random. And that’s the one we will be presenting.”

Horatio could feel all the color drain from his face fast enough to make him light headed. “Pick at random? You do realize that this is the most important decision I will ever have to make in my entire life, correct? I can’t just- just leave it to chance!”

“Horatio,” Professor Cornelius said tiredly, “it’s only a senior capstone. Not the birth of your first child.”

No, his advisor was right, this wasn’t the birth of his first child. At least if he messed up with a kid he could have another one and raise it better. This capstone was literally his only shot to make an impression and establish himself as a director and play-writer. If he messed up, no matter what he did in the future, no matter what masterpieces he created, he would always have this performance as a smudge on his resume; a failure made more extreme because it was his first and thus his base.

“I just need a bit more time.” Horatio begged, actually going so far as to clasp his hands together as he leaned over his hoard like a nesting dragon. He didn’t really  need  to host auditions, after all. He had solid ideas for who the two leading ladies should be and, of course, he’d known since the moment he saw Hamlet act back in first year that he would be the lead of this play. Honestly, Hamlet could show up, puke on stage, and pass out and Horatio would still cast him as the star. Ensemble might be an issue but realistically, Horatio could recruit them himself if it came to that. “Two more days.” He pleaded. “Two days and I’ll have a finished product.”

“Two hours. We will have actors here in two hours.” Professor Cornelius emphasized before offering him a more sympathetic glance. “How about this one, uh, number twenty-six? I liked the conflict that drives the second act.”

Horatio waved a dismissive hand. “That’s the one where the estranged husband pours poison into the main character's ear, it sucks.”

“Then number thirty-eight, surely--”

“Hate the setting. I made it too flashy and vogue.”

“Forty-nine.”

Horatio just grimaced.

“Okay.” Professor Cornelius sighed, placing his hands on his knees and standing up. “I’m going to go get the lights up and running. I will be gone for fifteen minutes exactly.” He gave Horatio a hard stare. “When I return, we will be picking a play, so whatever you need to do to prepare yourself between then and now…” He let the sentence hang as he walked away.

Horatio sat still, staring at the infinity of futures spread before him. So much possibility. So much room to fuck up.

He should check in with Hamlet again.

Horatio stood and wandered over to his coat, pulling his phone from the pocket.

_ 11:17 AM _

_ Hey. What’s your play about? Ham and I have to do our homework. _

He couldn’t escape. Horatio glanced back to the pile. Just make a decision. Any is better than none and he was a good writer. Or an abysmal writer. Probably a good one. He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a second. What was that thing his mom always said? First is a trail run, second job is super fun, third could certainly be the one, but by the fourth, you’re up and done. Of course, she was talking about men she’d slept with but...the concept probably still applied.

Horatio delicately dug through his stacks and pulled out play three, setting it on his lap. It was one of his heaviest edited works, more red lines and re-typings than actual dialogue, which would make sense considering he’d had the concept since first year. He checked the last editing date. Three weeks ago.

Cool. Cool, cool. He took a deep breath and forcibly shoved every ounce of anxiety out of his body.

He picked up the phone again.

_ 3:24 PM _

_ Okay so, it’s set in the roaring twenties New York City think F. Scott Fitzgerald type shit. Sorry, I know that’s not exactly your style but I figure you could do some fun stuff with sequins and there’s a costume ball scene so you can lose your ever-loving mind with that. Plot line. _

He paused and considered the play one more time. Nope, anxiety over. Horatio didn’t have anxiety. Horatio was calm all the time, twenty-four seven.

_Main guys are Denton Vincent and his wife Imogen. They’re high society, set to inherit a fuck ton of very old money. Of the two, Imogen is the proper one and Denton is like what basically amounts to a high society hippie. Wears his shirts untucked, thinks women can have original ideas, all that jazz. Then Imogen gets in a car crash and basically gets ‘shell shock’ from it. She’s ostracized from her class and becomes kinda an outcast for her behavior. Denton’s response is like ‘holy crap I gotta save our image’ and with his mom, Eleanor, breathing down his neck, he starts becoming the ideal rich boy. A rift forms between husband and wife as Imogen, freed from expectations, discovers she can do things like think and be her own person. She starts to develop an actual personality as she ‘descends into madness’ in the eyes of everyone around her. Denton on the other hand looks like he’s thriving but is actually losing all his passions, the love of his life, and every shred of inner control he has in favor of outer collectiveness. He’s crushed under the weight of what is expected of him and it is his alone to bear. Eventually, Imogen dumps his ass and goes to be with another man, big taboo there, and Denton divorces her. His mom makes him marry another girl called Maria, who’s a right old jealous mess. Blah, blah, blah, plot points, Denton still loves Imogen, tries to win her back, Maria murders Imogen, makes it look like suicide. In the end everything sucks because this is the Lost Generation and happy endings don’t exist._

Great. Horatio hit send and sat down in the nearest chair. So he was doing that one. And now that he’d told Ophelia, it was finalized because knowing her, she’d have sketches made for him within the hour. He carefully copied over the message and sent it to Hamlet under the title,  _ Finally got my shit together. Hope you’re ready to play a depressed bastard. _

Perfect. Horatio shoved his phone away before anyone had the chance to respond.

“So.” Professor Cornelius reentered the theatre, looking incredibly tired already. “Do we have it narrowed down to fifty-one or-”

“I’ve got the play.” Horatio announced. “We’re doing three.”

“Oh thank god.” His advisor muttered. “With Denton?”

“With Denton.” Horatio nodded. “I think it’ll be good.” He hoped.

“It’ll be great.” Professor Cornelius said comfortingly. He glanced back towards the tremendous stack of papers still littering the corner of the house. “You should probably clean that up before an energetic freshman steps on it.”

“Sure.” Horatio agreed. As if he would ever let a freshman audition for his play.

The lead-up to auditions was mostly quiet. As expected, Ophelia had an abundance of ideas by the time she arrived to help him out and, as five rolled around the corner, Horatio’s notes page was near to filling up with costume and set ‘suggestions.’

“Okay.” Horatio startled as Professor Cornelius spoke from the front of the stage. “So we’re going to get this started so we can all hopefully be out of here in time for dinner. We’re running ensemble auditions first then moving onto,” he checked the notepad in his hand, “Eleanor, Maria, Imogen, and ending with Denton. All set Horatio?”

Horatio glanced to Ophelia, who gave him a thumbs up, then let his gaze wander to where Hamlet was lounged in the audience. Hamlet nodded to him.

“All set.” Horatio breathed a sigh of relief. “And ready whenever the first person is.”

He sat down and flipped to a new page as a nervous sophomore appeared on stage. Mary Hillsworth. “You may begin when ready.”

* * *

Honestly, he couldn’t even remember what happened at auditions. This was Horatio’s play, which from the start meant that he would play the male lead. Even if Imogen was a more interesting character. But really, who better to play a Gilded-Era depressed billionaire than an actual depressed billionaire? In retrospect, maybe the whole reason Horatio stuck with him so long was for that part. Kudos to him, masterminding his play’s cast before it was even a play.

Auditions were done, and Ophelia was speaking rather excitedly with a boy with cropped silver hair. Who had tits and thighs that probably outweighed Hamlet.

“He’s a _she_, ” Hamlet whispered to himself as he caught the interlocking Venus signs on the person’s bag. Hamlet smiled. Apparently falling for androgyny was a Cortez family trait, considering he’d gotten Laertes’ when he cross-dressed for an experimental Greek revival play. He paused as he saw the giddiness on Ophelia’s face; the interest in her eyes. Considering the previous night, it was probably best to let her have this. He turned on his heel and headed to Horatio instead, sitting beside him with his legs sprawled over his lap.

“Hamlet, I have to be impartial,” Horatio said flatly.

“You aren’t impartial,” Hamlet smirked, catching Horatio’s vibrant green gaze. Was that a slight hint of annoyance, or a blush? The sleep deprivation made it hard to tell.

“What are we doing after this?” Hamlet asked easily, shifting down slightly in his chair so that more of his thighs rested in Horatio’s lap.

“I’m not sure,” Horatio said stiffly, looking very intently at the script, which Hamlet knew for a fact he had memorized.

“We could watch a movie at my place,” Hamlet offered. This was a good, easy way to make sure he would be able to be held without asking for it. Especially if it was horror.

“What movie?” Horatio asked, finally caving in and looking at him.

“Oculus was supposedly good,” Hamlet said, smiling at him slyly as his brows tensed.

“You don’t like horror,” Horatio said skeptically.

“But Ophelia does,” Hamlet said lightly. “I’m trying to make up for last night.” Hamlet let there be quiet for a second. “Besides, I’ll be okay. You can hold me during the scary parents while Ophelia eggs on the ghost or some shit.”

He watched the gears turn in Horatio’s head, but he knew where they’d ultimately end up. Horatio was, after all, completely starved for physical contact, what with his fencing team stuff and his overall ‘I don’t think about sex, but when I do it’s missionary’ fashion taste. A rough mix for a gay theater kid. 

“We can ask Ophelia if she wants to do that,” Horatio finally conceded. Hamlet grinned with satisfaction and got up, making his way to where Ophelia was (still) talking to quite possibly the most muscle-bound woman he’d ever seen.

“Ophelia, darling?” He asked, putting on his most charming smile and winning tone.

“Oh, Hamlet!” Ophelia smiled, though there was a hint of worry in her eyes,

“Who is this?” Hamlet asked politely, extending a flawlessly manicured hand to her new friend, who took it with her...nightmarishly calloused, scarred, and chipped hand. His back tensed against his will but his smile didn’t waver.

“Fortinbras, this is my boyfriend, Hamlet,” Ophelia said.

“Sweet,” Fortinbras nodded, smiling jockishly. “You’re at Parsons too?”

Hamlet probably visibly cringed that time. “Oh, no, I’m a senior here at Juilliard,” he said, forcibly maintain a warm tone. “Ophelia is the artsy one.”

“How did you two meet?” Fortinbras asked.

_She found the raunchy drag photos I gave her brother as porn and wanted me to be her model_, Hamlet thought to himself. Best not admit he knew that. “She was doing costume design for one of the productions I was in,” he lied easily. A sideways glance revealed the relief on Ophelia’s face.

“Cute,” Fortinbras nodded with a smile.

“Did you need something?” Ophelia asked gently, sensing an end to the pleasantries. Hamlet looked at her with his best version of love.

“I just wanted to head out,” he said truthfully. He thought he might die if he had to keep acting friendly towards this complete and utter stranger.

“Horatio is ready to go?” Ophelia asked. Hamlet looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, Horatio had packed up his bag and had his ratty old denim jacket on.

“He’s ready,” Hamlet said, smiling back at Fortinbras. “Lovely to meet you.” He turned maybe a little too quickly on his heel, retreating from the exhausting conversation to go loom by Horatio’s shoulder. After a moment, Ophelia joined them and he called Osric.

The genuinely impressive TV in the penthouse was mostly unused, save for situations like this. Hamlet loaded up Oculus, and as he expected, Ophelia was absolutely pumped.

“Ooh, this is Gothic horror! I’m so excited; I was so bummed when I missed it in theaters!” She settled beside Hamlet on the couch. He dimmed the lights down and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Sandwiched between her and Horatio, he felt safe for the first time in...weeks? A month? He ran and got a plush blanket off the bed, wrapping himself up in it. Ophelia joined him at first, but her response to horror was always to move a lot and yell at the screen, so pretty soon Hamlet found himself pressed flush against Horatio’s side.

He...hated horror movies. Aesthetically he was all for it, but the jump scares killed him. With what his mother called a ‘constantly nervous disposition,’ he didn’t take well to being startled. Hence the blanket. After the opening fifteen minutes he buried himself in it, content to lie with his head in Horatio’s lap as Ophelia maniacally coached the main characters from her seat.

“It’s the  _ mirror! _ ” She yelled. “Don’t just- No! Don’t go  _in_ the room with it!” She whisper-shouted at the scene. Hamlet had caught a glimpse of something gross earlier and elected to just hide his face in the blanket for the rest of it.

What he was truly banking on was Horatio’s utter disinterest in horror as a genre. The jump scares didn’t phase him, and at most the gore just disgusted him. This meant that, to him, the most exciting thing in the room was likely to be Hamlet himself. His reward for suffering through gore and terror was that he could have a free pass on the six-inch rule for just about two hours. He got to have his hair messed with or his shoulder rubbed without having to raise a finger or say a single word. It was easy to drown out the movie when he could focus on the warmth of Horatio’s touch.

Sure enough, after about half an hour of torture, he felt Horatio’s hand on the back of his neck, running his fingers comfortingly through the soft waves of hair at the nape of his neck. Hamlet closed his eyes and let himself relax, almost making a sound as each of the individually tense muscles in his neck and back loosened. He sank his weight against Horatio’s lap.

The movie was rougher than he thought it would be for him. Probably because he was somehow even closer to a complete emotional breakdown than he usually was, and more preoccupied with ghosts in general. But it did mean that while, under normal circumstances, he’d have needed to put thought into getting more of Horatio’s attention, the actions came naturally to him. He was practically curled in his lap, gripping his thigh for emotional support while his crazy girlfriend was oozing over the visual effects.

“Are you okay?” Horatio asked as Hamlet dug his nails into his leg during a particularly wet-sounding scene of violence.

“Yes,” Hamlet said very quickly, without emerging from the tangle of blankets.

“Is he scared?” Ophelia came down from her horror-high long enough to ask.

“I’m fine,” Hamlet peered up from the blankets. A mistake. He covered himself back up quickly. He felt Ophelia lay across him, hugging him tightly.

“We can stop if you want,” Ophelia said gently, pressing a kiss to what little was exposed of his cheek. This was perfect, actually. Hamlet had utterly no desire to shut off the terrible sounds. As long as he was scared of the movie, they’d both hold onto him. He found Ophelia’s hand and held it.

“I don’t mind, if you’re having fun,” he said through the quilt. This earned him another kiss, which was nice. Once Ophelia started cuddling him, though, Horatio had stopped stroking his hair. Without really thinking too hard about it he uncurled his fingers from his jeans and traced shapes lightly against his leg, occasionally ghosting over his inner thigh. Horatio shifted stiffly, but sure enough, Hamlet had succeeded in getting both of their undivided physical attention. If he got really lucky, one of them might decide to sleep over, even though it was technically a school night.


	6. Dreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia has a nightmare. Horatio has a sex dream. Hamlet is confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for being patient while we shift/adjust to the new semester. Like all artists and writers, we live on kudos and comments!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Discussions of suicide, parental emotional neglect

Was it a bad idea for Ophelia to sleep over at Hamlet’s? Yes. Definitely. Ultimately though, it was way easier to stay here and sleep with Hamlet than it was to go all the way back to her apartment and then all the way to Parsons.

Well, that, and Hamlet was really cute when he was scared. It always made her feel a little terrible because she knew he didn’t like horror movies, but she watched them anyway because they were just so bad. Hamlet couldn’t complain too much because he got all the cuddles from both Ophelia and Horatio, right? Right. Ophelia totally didn’t feel guilty. Not at all.

The dreams really didn’t help either. They were normal by her standards: no horror-induced nightmares or bizarre sexual delusions. No, she was just in the theater, a place she had been a million time before without issue, but now she was nervous.

“Hey, Ophelia!” A new friend bounded down the house stairs. Fortinbras. Her chiseled features should have been heart-stoppingly intimidating, but she had the goofiest grin. Something terrible settled in the pit of Ophelia’s stomach.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Auditions ended hours ago. It’s night. I’m supposed to be with Hamlet and Horatio.” She knew, and yet she couldn’t pull herself off the railroad tracks of the dream.

“No, I think it’s like, 7:00PM. Not that late. You should come hangout with me. Meet the team.” Fortinbras smiled. She looked like how she did for the audition: Her rugby uniform with a green flannel tied around her waist. Ophelia was sure it should be illegal to have thighs that nice.

“I don’t--I really have to go with my friends. Maybe some other time, yeah?” Ophelia hated how unsure her voice sounded.

Fortinbras took a few steps closer to her and cocked her head. “Is Hamlet just a friend now?”

“What?”

“That’s good. I know I haven’t known you for that long, but it’s not your job to deal with that cocktail of mental illness and a billionaire’s insecurity.” Fortinbras still smiled.

“You don’t know,” Ophelia started to back away. “You don’t know anything about him. If you spent any time with him then you would see how he really is.”

“Oh, sweetheart. And see that he treats you worse than everyone else? Definitely worse than Horatio. I’d rather not.” Fortinbras put a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder.

“That’s not true. You’ve spoken to him once. You can’t know.” Ophelia was not going to cry. Not in front of this person. This stranger.

“What did he say to you again? That you should leave him to rot in hell?”

“He apologized. It had barely even been an hour after it happened,” Ophelia started to shout.

“After he downed half a bottle of vodka. Some apology,” Fortinbras huffed. “Let’s not forget how he’s acting with Horatio right now, right? Normal friends don’t caress each other’s inner thighs. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“No, no. It’s not like that at all. They’ve always been good friends. Since before I even knew them.” Ophelia felt herself start to cry.

“When was the last time you platonically caressed your best friend’s inner thigh?” Fortinbras asked.

“Last night!” Ophelia yelled. “Hamlet’s my best friend.”

“And that’s why he thinks you only want him for sex, right?”

“You don’t know that! You can’t know that! What are you?” She clamped her hands over her ears.

Fortinbras sighed and sat Ophelia on the edge of the stage and rubbed small circles into her shoulder blades. “I’m just a dream. I don’t know anything about you, but you don’t know anything about me either. I’m only saying things you already think.”

“No. I don’t think any of that. I love Hamlet. I love Horatio. I love them more than anything.” Ophelia could hear her breaths heaving. This was going to be fun to explain in the morning.

“It’s okay. You can think these things and still love them. It’s okay to be worried about what’s going to happen to you.”

“No. It’s not okay. Their problems are so much worse than mine. I can’t be selfish like this,” Ophelia sobbed. “I can’t keep doing this to them.”

“When have you ever done this to them? You can’t even properly process it in real life so your subconscious decided it had to happen in a dream or else it would just, I don’t know, completely shut down.”

“No, this isn’t alright.”

“It  _ is _ alright,” Fortinbras whispered as she hugged Ophelia’s shaking form. “You’ll be forced to accept it sooner or later. Might as well make it hurt a little less.”

“No,” she repeated under her breath until she thought her lungs might give out. “Why are you here?”

“I lost another bet,” Fortinbras said. That was reality. Fortinbras lost a bet so she had to audition for the show. If she hadn’t lost a bet, Ophelia wouldn’t know who she was period and she wouldn’t be having this dream. God, who was she kidding? Instead of Fortinbras it would be Marcellus or Osric or someone equally as awful.

“I’m supposed to ask you out on a date,” Fortinbras smiled and laughed. “I was really hoping I’d lose this one. Guess it didn’t really work out like that though. You’ll probably want to go to Hamlet after this, huh. Maybe another time?”

“What makes you think I’d say yes? I’m dating Hamlet. I’m  _ dating _ Hamlet.” Ophelia began to sob harder.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay to have feelings like this. You’re what? Twenty? It’s okay. You just have to decide what you’re going to do about it.”

“I don’t want to decide,” Ophelia cringed at the way her voice hiccuped when she tried to say anything more forceful than a whisper. “I just want you to go away.”

“I can’t go anywhere,” Fortinbras said wistfully. “There’s nowhere for me to go, but at least you’ll never see me again.”

“But I want to,” Ophelia said and she immediately regretted it.

Fortinbras leaned on her shoulders and laughed. “But you keep forgetting. I’m not real. You made me up. You’ll see someone who looks a lot like me, but I promise. She’s a lot nicer.”

Ophelia used all of her energy to push herself to her feet. “Alright. I want out. How do I leave?”

Fortinbras smiled. Even through her tears, Ophelia thought she smiled beautifully. “You’ve just got to wake up.”

Through force of will alone, Ophelia forced herself awake. She was breathing rather heavily and her back hurt like hell, but Hamlet and Horatio were still asleep next to her. It was ridiculous. There was a king size bed right next to them and all three of them decided to sleep on the couch. Wonderful.

Hamlet looked so peaceful when he was sleeping. It was the only time he didn’t look absolutely tormented. Ophelia pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder and he nuzzled into Horatio’s stomach. It was okay, she reminded herself. He had apologized and that was enough.

* * *

When Hamlet bared his neck, it was like an act of love. Horatio pressed another rough kiss against the thin flesh, tracing his teeth over Hamlet’s adam apple just to feel him shutter; to shiver beneath his weight and know that he was the one bringing him to an edge. With a careful carelessness, Horatio traced kisses up the length of Hamlet’s neck and along his jaw. As he latched onto a tender spot beneath his ear, he heard Hamlet moan.

“Horatio,” Hamlet breathed through his teeth, “don’t be such a,” Horatio pressed his thigh into the crook of Hamlet’s leg and heard as his partner’s breath caught.

“Don’t be such a what, Hamlet?” Horatio teased lightly, letting his hot breath brush right below Hamlet’s ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you want me to do.” He leaned forward, allowing his full weight to rest against Hamlet’s erect cock. He could feel it, straining hard enough so as to push the impression of Hamlet’s lace boxers through. How he longed to feel them, to run his hands over the delicate swirls and sweeps; the coarseness and silky smooth edges; all so like Hamlet himself. Horatio pulled back and kissed Hamlet like a drowning man seeking air. “Let me help you. Let me make you feel good,” Horatio whispered reverently and Hamlet smiled.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said fondly, “you already make me feel good.” His hands found their way to Horatio’s hips and held there, lithe fingers digging into the hallows of his bones. This time, Hamlet kissed him, long, gentle, and slow. His dark eyes flickered with excitement and trust. “Take me.” Hamlet said. “I want you inside me. I want you, Horatio.” He spoke with the air of one confessing sin and sainthood in the same breath. “I only want you. Only and forever.”

Now it was Horatio’s turn to moan, his core exploding with fresh fire as he basked in the light of Hamlet’s undivided attention and passion. Only, only, only him.  _ Him _ . Horatio wrapped his arm beneath Hamlet’s ass and lifted him in one fluid motion. The wall of the men’s dressing room was rough concrete so Horatio made sure to twine one hand through Hamlet’s hair, protecting his head as he forcefully pushed the slighter man against the wall.

Hamlet’s breathing was hard now; ragged and pushed through a sharp grin. But, no; not sharp exactly. Playful, clever, brilliant, desperate; an honest grin. Hamlet could barely support himself on shaky legs as Horatio began to work his pants off. As predicted, Hamlet’s lace boxers ran like silver threads beneath Horatio’s fingers, invigorating but discarded in a matter of seconds. Horatio grasped Hamlet’s cock and gave it a few experimental pumps, feeling it pulse beneath his palm.

“Horatio,” Hamlet’s voice was sweet in its highness and his eyes were closed. As Horatio waited, one hand still wound tight around his partner’s penis, Hamlet’s eyes snapped open, heady with lust and love intermingled. “Fuck me.”

Horatio smiled and flipped Hamlet face first to the wall. As he inserted the first lube-covered finger into him, Hamlet whined. Keeping his movements quick and commanding, Horatio added another finger. He established a demanding pace, spurred on by years of missed time and the pure, erotic reward of seeing Hamlet’s gaze grow fuzzy as he began to ram back against Horatio’s fingers.

Another addition completed Horatio’s preparations and he pulled out. Hamlet made such soft sounds in protest their absence. There was no yelling, though; no argument. Just faithful acceptance and absolute trust. With shaking hands, Horatio freed himself from his own confinements of cotton, shedding dress pants and lubing his length as fast as possible. He lined himself up to Hamlet’s ass and leaned forward, letting himself breath in the soft scent of flowers in Hamlet’s thick blond hair. Roses and lavender.

Horatio penetrated Hamlet and once more set a rapid pace, relishing how Hamlet’s small cries swelled to full moans, loud enough to be heard throughout the entire theater. Horatio could feel his own heat swell to an invisible brink with each thrust.

Hands along his shoulder. Legs draped across his arms. Naked in the bathroom. Fingers lightly tracing his inner thigh; little patterns. Standing on the stage. Passion in his dark eyes. The grayscale bedroom. Kindness hidden somewhere beneath. The way he was. The way he’d always been.

“Let me be with you.” Horatio offered between pants. “Please?”

“Please!” Hamlet cried as he came across the concrete.

“Horatio?” Ophelia asked from the open doorway.

“I’m sorry!” Horatio yelled as he woke to see Ophelia staring down at him. Her hands found his shoulders and held him in place for a second.

“I think you were having a bad dream.” Opehlia said comfortingly. She rubbed kind circles into his shoulder blades.

A bad dream. A form of a bad dream, he guessed. Horatio quickly brushed Opehlia’s hands away and twisted himself into a protective ball, hoping to shield whatever...remnants the unwanted vision had left.

“Where’s Hamlet?” He asked, trying to keep his voice at its usual level of collected to little success.

“He’s washing up.” Ophelia said. “Did you want to tal-”

“Nope.” Horatio interjected. He winced as he saw Ophelia’s face fall sharply, internally kicking himself. He was already doing the worst thing imaginable, after all, silently betraying both his friends’ hard-earned trust. He couldn’t be a bastard on the outside too. “I’m sorry.” He smiled thinly. “It was just, uh...an unfortunate dream. I had an issue in the boy’s dressing room right before a show and I had to take care of it myself...”

Ophelia nodded in sympathy. “You’re probably still wired from auditions.”

“Something like that.” Horatio agreed. He was beyond relieved to find that a nice mix of terror and stress was already taking care of his little problem, which allowed him to unfurl a bit more. He glanced around the apartment. “Did we all sleep on the couch?” He asked.

“Yup.” Ophelia confirmed. “Like dumbasses.”

“Well, we are all fairly idiotic.” Him more so than them. Sometimes. Idiotic in very different, very special ways. He stood and stretched, listening to a symphony of cracking playing down his spine.

“I’m going to make coffee. Did you want any?” He asked Ophelia as he walked towards the kitchen purposefully.

“I’m good.” She answered morosely. Horatio paused and turned back to scrutinize her more closely.

“Are you alright?” He asked, taking in the bare hints of exhaustion in her tight shoulders and downturned mouth.

“Yeah.” Ophelia said just a bit too quickly. “I’m perfect.”

Okay, cool. So they were both lying to each other. Horatio considered pressing Ophelia to talk for a moment before common sense kicked in and brought to his attention that he had class in about an hour, this was Hamlet’s apartment which meant Ophelia was sure to be even more close lipped, and that he honestly didn’t have the spoons to be fighting anyone right now. “Okay.” He said reluctantly. “If you want to talk about things later, you always know where to find me.”

“Sure.” Ophelia said in a way Horatio knew really meant  never.

“Oh, great.” Hamlet wandered into the room already dressed and ready to go for the day in a couture black jacket and fitted pants. “You two are finally up.”

Horatio nodded. He waited for Ophelia to pick up the conversation as she usually did so that he could do his best to fade into the background while he finished feeling like a piece of freshly made horse shit. Ophelia, however, remained silent as she wandered into the kitchen to drown herself in coffee. Horatio watched her go, worriedly. He silently cursed. He was already messed up from the dream, he couldn’t handle a break in their trio’s established dynamic too.

Horatio looked between Hamlet and Ophelia and raised an eyebrow at the former. Hamlet shrugged, looking a touch concerned but otherwise unfazed. So it wasn’t another fight then, which meant homegrown, organic Ophelia feelings. That was so much worse.

Horatio did the quick mental math. If Ophelia wouldn’t talk to him now, he’d have to make time for himself to be conveniently ‘available’ later tonight, which, in turn, meant that the morning had officially become Hamlet’s time.

He walked over to his friend and stood beside him as Hamlet finished fiddling with a button on his outfit. “Did you want to walk to class together?” Horatio asked softly. “Assuming you’re going to your ten today.”

“Yeah, I have to.” Hamlet replied with a roll of his eyes. “Test.”

Horatio nodded. He kept his gaze strictly away from anything that wasn’t Hamlet’s face. “Well, I’m going to head out in about ten then if you want to join.”

“Aren’t you going to change?” Ophelia asked with just a tad too much intensity, stepping back into the conversation. Even though he and Hamlet were standing side by side, her eyes remained solely on Horatio. He fought the urge to grimace. That didn’t bode well.

“It’s just workshopping today.” Horatio assured her. “Nobody’s going to care if I look like I crawled out of a garbage can.”

“I care.” Hamlet muttered. “I don’t want to be seen with you looking like that.”

“Tough.” Horatio shot back.

Hamlet glared at him. “Why won’t you just let me dress you properly?” He complained. “I can kind of get Ophelia not wanting me to because she’s in, like, costume design, but you’re completely hopeless.”

Horatio shrugged. “I guess I just don’t care how I look.” He replied, confident that his words would short circuit Hamlet’s brain long enough for him to finish his coffee.

Hamlet stared at him in utter horror for a moment before boiling to a rage. “What on earth do you mean ‘you don’t care how you look!’” Hamlet yelled. “What else could you possibly care about! Don’t you want to be presentable?!”

“Not really.” Horatio said calmly. “I want to be comfortable.”

Hamlet clutched his chest like he was having a heart attack. “Ophelia!” He cried, turning towards his girlfriend with pleading, anguished eyes. “Help me!”

“Just let him wear what he wants.” Ophelia said tiredly, keeping her gaze on her coffee mug, and Horatio’s concern increased from mild to serious. Ophelia never passed up the opportunity to join Hamlet in ridiculing his bland clothing choices. It had always been the most surefire way to get them talking again after an incident.

Horatio rapidly adjusted his plans, shoving aside guilty resentment and personal discomfort in favor of artificial ease. “Did you want to join us on our walk, Ophelia?” He asked pleasantly. “I know your school’s a bit more of a hike but until you get to the metro station...”

“I’m good.” Ophelia said sharply, placing her mug down on the counter. “I’m actually going to head out now. See you guys later?”

“Sure.” Horatio said. “Uh, call me after classes?”

“Yup.” Ophelia gave him a rigid hug and Hamlet a small kiss on the cheek before heading towards the door.

The second she was gone, Horatio turned on Hamlet. “Did you do something?” He asked, partially in accusation, mostly in confusion.

Hamlet frowned, shifting in place. “Not that I’m aware of, no.” He said with narrowed gaze. “Why? Has she told you anything?”

“Nope.” Horatio stared at the door, feeling for all the world like he was watching a storm come over the edge of the horizon. “Nothing at all.” He shook his head to clear himself out and picked up a mug. “You should try calling her later.” He offered as a suggestion that was really more of an order. “See if there’s anything you can do to help.”

“I was already planning to do that.” Hamlet snapped. His voice was completely honest and Horatio felt like shit again.

“Yeah, okay.” He apologized. “Sorry, I’m, uh. A bit jumpy this morning. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s fine.” Hamlet said slowly. He eyed Horatio as if weighing odds. “Are you doing okay?” He finally asked, only sounding half interested in the other’s answer as he moved to gather up his bag.

“Yup.” Horatio said. “Peachy. Just wired from last night’s auditions.” He hoped he was telling his half-truth convincingly. For whatever reason, Hamlet was far harder to trick that Ophelia was.

Hamlet’s expression furrowed for a beat then relaxed, either letting the issue go or storing it away for later interrogation. “Fine.” He said breezily. “Though I’m not sure why you would be. We both know I’ve already got the lead.”

“Yeah, well…” Horatio debated claiming impartiality again but that was pointless to do in private. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Hamlet replied stiffly. “Now, we need to talk about my role. Denton is great and all but have you considered letting me play Imogen instead?”

* * *

As a general rule, Hamlet showed up for tests, presentations, exams, and graded performances. His professors tended to know better than to yell at him for his spotty attendance on the other days, since he headlined most of the public performances the stupid conservatory put on. He’d also made a name for himself outside the school, so it would look very bad to the real-world theater scene if they were to expel him for absences.

He took his test quickly. It was a simple thing, really. Just a quiz to see if he adequately remembered all the technicalities of play structure versus film structure. He breezed through it, knowing full well that even if he failed it wouldn’t matter. He had to get to Parsons. It was just after eleven, which meant that Ophelia would be in the studio doing artsy things. He considered calling Osric to drive him, but decided against it. Osric would try to talk to him, which he wasn’t in the mood for. He was only barely in the mood for talking to Ophelia, since he had a nagging feeling that it was going to be some imagined issue with him. She’d been awfully strange that morning, which meant that he’d probably fucked up.

In his head he had the brilliant plan to walk most of the way to her studio, but in reality his foot hurt like a bitch so he called a cab. He ran through what he could have done wrong. There was a chance that she was still upset about the other night. That was irritating, since he’d apologized, but it would make sense. Perhaps something about auditions? She’d seemed happy enough then, and as far as he could recall he was nothing short of an absolute gentleman during the whole thing. Perhaps it was something about the horror movie afterwards? He couldn’t think of anything he’d done that would have made her upset. Odds were slim but not zero that she’d noticed him toying with Horatio’s thighs. His surprisingly toned, well-muscled fencing thighs.

Maybe that was it? They’d fallen asleep on the couch, which meant that Hamlet spent the night more or less pressed against Horatio’s stomach. He fell asleep last and woke up before both of them, so he assumed that she hadn’t noticed that he’d spent nearly the whole night fighting the temptation to touch Horatio’s sleep-induced erection. Or the temptation to wake Ophelia up so that she could help him with his own misplaced arousal. There was no way she’d have noticed, and even if she did she’d probably assume (and he’d verify) that he was hot for her. It would certainly make more sense than him trying to explain that he was thinking about unzipping his best friend’s terrible, untailored jeans and feeling exactly how big his-

He cut off the thought before it could escalate. He needed to focus on making sure Ophelia was alright. Especially if she was mad at him. His stomach did backflips as the cab pulled up outside her building. He hated not knowing why she was upset. He almost always knew why, or at least had a viable guess. He paid the driver and stepped out, bracing himself for whatever nightmare he was walking into.

“Ophelia,” he said, making what was apparently a grand entrance into the studio. Six pairs of confused, grungy eyes stared at him. The seventh pair merely glanced up.

“Hamlet?” Ophelia asked, returning to her...sketches? Painting? Hamlet didn’t care. He grabbed a stool and sat beside her.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, fixing his eyes on her. He was making a point to be inescapable, but gentle. She barely looked at him.

“Nothing,” she said, clearly lying. She never took any acting classes.

“Wrong,” he said quickly. “You’re upset about something.”

“Don’t you have classes today?” She asked tiredly.

“I barely go to classes, even when there isn’t something wrong,” he said easily. He reached out a hand and caressed her cheek, brushing back a dark curl. “What’s up?”

She finally looked at him. She looked...guilty? Not mad. That was good. Sad maybe? Sad was worse than angry, so he hoped desperately that she wasn’t sad about something he did. Guilt was a bad emotion. Anger, jealousy, literally anything was better than guilt. Hamlet bounced his knee anxiously, mentally reminding himself that he didn’t need to feel bad yet. She hadn’t said what he did, and he hadn’t actually done anything wrong last night. It was normal to occasionally get hot for people other than the person you’re dating, especially when their dick is within inches from your face. He was sure it happened to everyone. It had to. It certainly meant nothing.

“Can we talk later?” She finally said. Torture. She was trying to torture him into feeling awful so that he’d apologize easier later.

“Can we talk now instead?” Hamlet asked, forcing the irritation from his voice.

“I’m technically in class now,” Ophelia said with a sigh. “After class?”

“How long is class?” Hamlet asked.

“Another two hours,” she said easily.

“Two hours?!” Hamlet said, louder than he’d planned. What the living hell was the matter with art people? He died after being forced to sit through even one hour of class.

“It’s studio, Hamlet,” she said quietly. “How about you go, I don’t know, get coffee or something, and meet me back here at one?”

“And then we’ll talk?” Hamlet asked impatiently.

“Then we’ll talk.” She smiled weakly. “It’s very sweet of you to have come all the way out here for me.”

Hamlet leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, and then hungrily on the lips. “Anything for you,” he smiled.  _ Anything to keep you _ , he thought.

He let her return to her work, opting to head to a cafe to read Horatio’s scripts instead of lurking in the filthy background of a painting studio. Horatio had refused his offer to play Imogen, which Hamlet was still rather irritated about, but the other guy seemed fine. Appearance-induced self-loathing was something he at least had quite a lot of experience with. Reading was a good distraction, too. At least it was until his phone rang.

“Mother.” He said venomously.

“Oh, thank god,” his mother said on the other line, voice dripping with relief. “Claudius and I have been so worried about you. Why didn’t you return any of my-”

“What do you want?” Hamlet asked sharply, mood turning from gray to black.

“Osric informed us that you were rather unwell-”

“I’m completely fine. You may go now,” Hamlet hissed.

“Darling, did you get the invitation I mailed you for the Paris fashion week?” Of course this was about business.

“Nope,” Hamlet smirked into the phone.

“Hamlet, it is completely vital that you come,” her tone shifted. “I want you to represent us in the menswear show. With the other stars from the agency, of course.”

“I’m too short, remember?” Hamlet said disinterestedly.

“By an inch or two, yes,” she stressed. “But it won’t matter so much. I’ve vetted the other models and you’re within their range. I assume you’ve been keeping yourself in shape? Sticking to the diet I prescribed? Of course, it’s okay if you’ve gained a pound or so, but if it’s more than five we may have a problem with-”

“Mother, I don’t want to model for you,” Hamlet said through his teeth skin prickling with wrath. Part of him considered going back. What with the stress of Dad dying, he had a famine-chic look to his face and ribs. Maybe she’d finally feel some guilt. “I hate Paris.”

“No one hates Paris,” she said easily. “What’s the matter? You sound off.”

“I’m busy,” Hamlet spat. “I just got a part in a play, and I have schoolwork.”

“Hamlet, you have to prioritize the brand,” his mother finally abandoned her false gentleness. “I’m sure acting is very fun, but you need to think of your future.”

“My  _ future _ is in acting. I’m still waiting for the results of an audition for a film. A real-life, potentially award-eligible film.” Hamlet let the full weight of his hatred bleed through his voice. “Unlike you, I have no interest in being a glorified sex object for the fashion industry until a rich man gets me pregnant, thus ruining my chances of starving to death for my modeling career!”

“Hamlet Louis-Etienne Kierkegaard, do not speak to me like that!” She shouted. Excellent. Once the full title was used it meant they were back to their real relationship. “I know you don’t care about my work, but at least care about your father’s! We need you back here for the show. To represent  _ him _ .”

“You mean to soften the blow of the fact that his brother is railing his widow?” Hamlet paced slightly, irritating the other customers for sure.

“Hamlet!” She yelled. There was a pause, presumably as she collected herself. “I know that your father’s death is very hard for you, but it doesn’t give you an excuse to be rude.”

“Right,” Hamlet scoffed. “Because it’s so acceptable to remarry within a month of your beloved husband’s death. To his twin brother.”

“Claudius is a good man, Hamlet,” she said defensively. “And he loves you very much.”

“Oh, in that case, fantastic!” Hamlet laughed sarcastically. “I’ll cancel my plans to hang myself and fly right on back to Paris so you can return to micromanaging my body and my life.”

“Are you okay?” His mother managed a hint of genuine concern. “Osric mentioned you weren’t taking things so well…”

“Of course I’m okay. Claudius loves me, after all,” Hamlet left the cafe after he caught a terrified kid staring at him. He could really let loose now that he was outdoors.

“Hamlet,” she said gently, “do you want to...talk?” Her attempts at motherhood were, as always, poorly timed and under-rehearsed.

“Nope. Never,” he said darkly. “I’d rather cut my throat.”

“That...would be quite a mess,” she said, obviously unable to figure out whether or not he was kidding. He honestly wasn’t sure either.

“Yeah, well, what can I say,” Hamlet laughed hollowly. “Apparently dying sudden, brutally messy deaths is a Kierkegaard family trait.”

“Don’t talk about your father like that,” his mother snapped.

“I can talk about him however I want. He’s dead, Mother. He can’t hear me!” Hamlet shouted. He wiped at his eyes, surprised to find them wet. His mother was quiet for several seconds.

“Would you be safer at home?” She finally said. “I’m worried about you.”

“I don’t have a home,” Hamlet said through his tears, voice weaker than he would have liked. “Dad was the only thing that made that stupid house livable.” He was finally back to the studio building. “I have to go.”

“Hamlet, you need to come to the--” He hung up before she could remind him of the Paris show. He headed straight to the single-stall unisex bathroom, glanced at the time on his phone. He could sob for exactly forty-five minutes before he had to be fine again.


	7. Little Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia is conflicted. Horatio calls his mom. Hamlet is upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for sticking with our fic, and I hope you enjoy it! We live on comments and kudos, so please reach out! 
> 
> Trigger warnings this chapter for: abandonment issues

Well, that was...something. Very sweet and a little mistimed, but still, something. Ophelia suddenly found it impossibly difficult to focus on her sketches. Obviously he knew about the dream even though she hadn’t told a soul. Because that made a ton of sense. God, she couldn’t even properly work on her senior showcase piece without feeling vaguely sick and she loved that damn thing to pieces. So, she guessed it was time to work on her side project of sorts.

Halloween costumes. They were Ophelia’s bread and butter. None of her friends were interested in anything that was even remotely cosplayable, so it was a nice compromise. She flipped to the back of her non-school sketch book. Hamlet was interested in Dracula or Marilyn Monroe and Horatio wanted to be a...sheet ghost. Did she write that down correctly? A sheet ghost? Um, she supposed she could make that work.

The feeling of pressing the pencil to the page to start a new project was intoxicating. That’s probably why she had so many unfinished designs floating around. Hamlet was easy. Either option was full of flowy lines and sex appeal. There was the brief internal struggle: to draw Hamlet as a vampire or to draw him in drag. As much as she loved seeing him in drag, vampires were just a little more up her alley. Fake vampires too, not the gross, rotting things that had recently made a resurgence in pop culture after the Twilight hype died down. No, no, no. Ophelia was going to design the most ostentatious, glittery excuse for a Victorian dandy anyone had ever seen.

Horatio would be a little more difficult because...sheet ghost. There wasn’t much she could do with that. Maybe hijack some of Hamlet’s nice Egyptian cotton? Give him sticks so he could puppeteer his hands? God, she really didn’t know. She’d come up with something interesting eventually.

Now, Ophelia had no idea what she was going to do for herself. She oscillated back and forth from Le Mis characters to the queen of the night to something else. The only thing she knew that was completely off limits was anything related to Dracula. Hamlet made her sign a vow when they first started dating that they would never do couples costumes because they were “too tacky.” Silly Hamlet, nothing Ophelia designed would ever be too tacky. She laughed to herself and managed to draw the attention of her classmates. Great. If she just kept her head down, then maybe no one would try to talk to her.

This was a fantastic misuse of studio time, but Ophelia couldn’t find it within herself to care. Actually, she cared a lot, but she didn’t have enough energy to actually refocus herself on anything useful. So, she was just vaguely miserable while she made herself feel better by trying to draw Hamlet as androgynously as possible. Her professor was definitely judging her from over her shoulder. Too bad. 

And then Hamlet came back. Amazing how fast two hours could fly by when she was trying to ignore that they existed. And he had been crying? Of course, he didn’t seem that upset. He nonchalantly strode into the studio as the rest of her classmates were leaving. However, even the best actor in the world couldn’t chase the redness form his eyes. He knew. He had to know.

“So, are we going to talk about what’s wrong?” Hamlet asked, pulling up the stool next to her.

“I think--” Nope. Ophelia stopped herself. They weren’t going to talk about why Hamlet had been crying. He clearly didn’t want her to notice so, she wasn’t going to corner him like she always did. Another pebble of guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. Like she always did. “Yeah, yeah. I promised we’d talk.”

“And?” Hamlet asked when she didn’t provide more information.

“And I just had a bad dream. It’s really not that big of a deal.” She tried to flash a smile, but she knew it was unconvincing. “It wasn’t real, after all.”

“Dreams can still kinda suck though.” Hamlet shifted uncomfortably. “It probably doesn’t mean as much as you think it does.”

“But what if it does? I don’t even know,” Ophelia buried her face in her folded arms. “Ugh, I’m a wreck.”

Hamlet rubbed her shoulders. It made her feel better and worse at the same time, which only made her more guilty. “You’re not a wreck,” he whispered. “It’s just been a bad couple of days. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Ophelia asked.

“For everything that’s happened in the past wretched 48 hours.” He pressed his cheek into her hair.

“But you already apologized. I’m not mad anymore. Really.”

“Yeah, but you’re still upset and I’m still sorry.” An awkward paused floated through the air and burned Ophelia’s eyes. “Why are you upset then? If it’s not about what happened.”

“I told you, it’s just a dream,” Ophelia said way too quickly to sound truthful.

“And what happened in the dream?” Hamlet asked. Was that irritation in his voice? It was a valid question and Ophelia knew it, but still, she didn’t want to answer.

“Nothing. It’s fine.” She was just going to keep making bad decisions, huh.

“Ophelia,” irritation and maybe fear dripped from his voice. “It’s clearly not nothing and you’re still pissed off at me. And like, I get it, I guess, but what am I supposed to do to make this stop?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Ophelia snapped and instantly regretted it. “I’m mad at me,” she said softly.

“You’re not mad at me?” Hamlet asked incredulously. “Really? Even though I’m the worst?”

Ophelia tried to bury herself deeper in her arms. “You’re not the worst.”

“Clearly I am or else you wouldn’t constantly be angry with me,” Hamlet snapped and guilt flooded his face which was quickly replaced by anger. 

“I’m not constantly angry with you. I love you!” Ophelia was acutely aware that yelling it at him didn’t make her seem very credible.

“You can do both! Everyone I know does both all the time!” Hamlet matched her tone.

“Hamlet, that’s not true. It’s never been true! What are you even talking about?”

“If you won’t tell me what’s actually wrong then that clearly means it’s something I’ve done.” Hamlet looked like he was about to cry again and Ophelia wanted to crawl into a cave and die.

“Would you like it if was your fault? Would that make you feel better?” She was doing it again. She was forcing his wrath because it was so much easier to deal with than his sadness or his pain. Hamlet was wrong. She was the worst.

“Yes! Yes, it would. Because then I would know there wasn’t anything else hurting you. That’s all I want.” Hamlet’s words swarmed around Ophelia’s head like bees.

“Fine. Then why do you keep me around if I’m such a burden?” she asked.

“What are you even talking about?”

“If you would rather  you be the cause of my problems and you get upset when you  are the cause of my problems, then why deal with it? Why deal with me?” Tears threatened Ophelia’s eyes. She couldn’t cry. Absolutely not. Not when Hamlet had already been crying, maybe was crying again.

“Because I love you and I want to help!” He yelled. “Because you are the only good thing that’s happened to me in years!”

The air around her suddenly turned cold and still. That wasn’t true. That couldn’t be true. People loved him so much. His career was beyond shining and he inspired adoration wherever he went. She couldn’t find the words she wanted even though she was trying so hard. So she said instead, “What about Horatio?”

“What? What about him?” Hamlet seemed genuinely confused, but he was still an actor and an amazing actor at that.

“He’s something good that’s happened to you. You’ve got to care about him too.”

“I...I do,” Hamlet whispered. “It’s not what you think. We’re friends. Just friends!”

He looked terrified. All the acting in the world couldn’t hide that. All at once, Ophelia felt her blood turn to ice. “I never said you weren’t.”

* * *

Workshopping passed quickly, as his group decided to split up early, each sending individual glares at Horatio as they left the room. He packed up his bag unbothered, content in the awareness that he was a prima donna nightmare to collaborate with but much too focused on editing to care.

The issue was that as soon as he left class, all of the stress and guilt of that morning had come rushing back with true intensity. It left Horatio in a difficult position. Normally when he got stressed he’d talk to Ophelia or Hamlet about it but that, obviously, wasn’t an option now, which left him exactly two solid coping mechanism: Fencing or calling to his mom and hoping she was feeling helpful that day.

Horatio had just had a sex dream in his friend’s apartment while said friend and friend’s girlfriend slept right on top of him then proceeded to watch both friends get into an argument of some kind.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.  
“-And then,” Horatio yelled as he stabbed his foil through the air, “Hamlet said he’d go talk to Ophelia after class, which is either a good thing or a really, really bad thing. I don’t have  time  to comfort both of them through break-up issues and direct my play all at once!” He pulled the foil back and thrust it in a different direction. “That’s three whole things to do! I can barely handle multitasking while cooking, how am I supposed to mastermind three individual crises?!”

“Is Hamlet the ugly one?” His mom asked over the speaker phone. Her loud voice reverberated throughout the studio space, spreading the Staten Island accent to all corners.

Horatio sighed. “No, he’s the gorgeous one.”

“I’ve seen photos of him.” His mom said. “He’s extremely unattractive. Wears too much gray plus he’s paler than a ghost on cocaine. You can do better. You should date Ophelia!”

“Ma.” Horatio struck his foil against a floor mat. “I’m gay. Which, as I’ve mentioned before, means that I’m never going to date Ophelia. Also, she’s currently dating Hamlet, which is most of the issue here.”

“You can be gay and still date girls,” his mom said encouragingly.

“You can.” Horatio conceded, impressed that his mom actually remember the conversation where he explained bi people existed. “But I, personally, am exclusively attracted to men.”

“No, no, no.” His mom said. Over the phone line, something began to beep loudly. An oven probably. His mom had a habit of trying to talk to him while simultaneously managing the lunch rush hour at her restaurant. “Your Aunt Loretta was a lesbian and she was happily married to a man for over twenty-nine years. Well, before her husband had that heart attack from eating too many cannolis, the poor dear.”

“We’ve been over this, Ma. Aunt Loretta wasn’t a lesbian, she just liked flannel.” Horatio mimicked a parry. He wished he could actually practice against someone but, unfortunately, his team members all seemed to have lives and couldn’t be bothered to come duel him instead of eating lunch. Weaklings. He parried again. “I  _ like _ Hamlet, I really do. I just shouldn’t. It’s not ethical. And, anyways, he’s kinda above my station.”

“How do you mean?” His mom asked. “Do you think I didn’t raise you well enough to be a rich man’s mistress?”

“I’m fully aware that you did,” Horatio conceded. “But I don’t want to be. Hamlet’s mistress, I mean. I want to be his boyfriend. But that’s completely impossible and probably would be even if he wasn’t dating Ophelia. I’m too, I don’t know, plain. Boring. Single minded. And Hamlet is just so bright. He deserves someone like Ophelia, someone with spunk and vivid passion.”

“Didn’t you tell me Hamlet’s clinically depressed?” His mom asked doubtfully.

“He’s going through some shit.” Horatio checked his footing and jabbed at an imagined foe. “And it’s exacerbating everything he normally deals with to a psychotic extent. Granted, he is a bit of a bastard by nature, but he’s also really talented and wonderfully over the top and charismatic. He’s even caring when he wants to be. Hamlet is the most passionate person I’ve ever met. It’s like he’s this big bonfire and I’m just,” Horatio glanced down at his forgettable form and sighed, “a moth or something.”

Over the line, his mom made a vague sound of irritation. “Horatio di Levanti, you are incredibly handsome and smart as a pin. I should know, you are my kid.”  
“Humble as usual, I see.” Horatio rolled his eyes.

“Always.” He could hear the smirk in his mother’s voice. “The only reason you don’t think you’re as good as Hamlet is because you’re so intent on making yourself small.”

“I am not.” Horatio frowned. He hesitated before setting the foil aside. “I know I’m smart, Ma, and I know I’m good at what I do. It’s not as if I’ve ever had any self-worth issues before. I’m not trying to be invisible.” Not trying too hard anyways, he mentally corrected himself.

“You once sat in the pantry and cried for three hours because your cousin called your forehead fat.”

“I was six!”

“And don’t forget that time that you got a B on a English paper and lost the will to exist for a week and a half.”

“Examining  _The Sun Also Rises_ as an inherently gay narrative was totally valid and Mrs. Carson didn’t appreciate my vision.” Horatio sat cross legged in front of the phone.

“All I’m saying is that you need to be bigger.” His mom said firmly. “Show the world what you’re made of. Or at least stop wearing the same jean jacket every single day. Honestly, I’d take either at this point.”

“I don’t wear the jean jacket every day.” Horatio argued weakly.

“You’re wearing it right now, aren’t you?”

Horatio gripped the edge of his jacket. “...No.”

“Listen,” his mom’s hard-lined voice suddenly turned comforting, “Hamlet doesn’t have anything you don’t already possess in excess. You’re creative, level-headed, hardworking, and you’re Italian to boot, which makes you better than basically everyone else. What’s Hamlet again? German?”

“Scandinavian.” Horatio fiddled with his coat, sticking his fingers in and out of a small hole in the sleeve.

“There you go. You were born of the blood that built Rome and invented good cooking. Hamlet was born of people who think pickled herring is a pretty swell idea and that viking funerals can make up for lack of sunlight.”

Horatio snorted in spite of himself but the amusement faded quickly as it came. “I just feel like a bad person, Ma. I mean, does it make me terrible to think about Hamlet that way? I feel so awful all the time and it makes things worse ‘cause the more guilty I feel, the more I think about why I feel guilty, the more I think about Hamlet. It’s a never ending cycle.” He paused. “I don’t want to hurt either of my friends and right now it seems inevitable that I will.”

His mom appeared to think it over for a brief moment. “You can’t control attraction. Nobody’s ever really gotten hurt because of a little crush.” She finally decided. “And I think your feelings will fade if you let them. In the meantime, find ways to distract yourself from feeling guilty. You have your play, which,” her voice grew a touch bitter, “will eat up all your time and prevent you from ever visiting home.”

“Sorry in advance.” Horatio said without correcting her.

His mom grunted. “Plus fencing. Maybe you could even make some new, more normal friends.”

Horatio winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s hard.” He protested. “Plus between Ophelia and Hamlet, I never have any left over energy to spare for other people. I can barely deal with R&G as it is.”

“Oh, I know! You should go to confession. I promise the priest will be okay with you being gay as long as you do a few Hail Marys to cleanse your soul before you go in.” His mom said helpfully as another alarm began to scream. She made no effort to silence it.

“Ma, nobody goes to church in college. It’s not cool.” Horatio stood to check the hallway for occupants and, finding none, laid down on the mat beside his phone, curling around it.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” His mom said sarcastically. “I didn’t realize it was  _ cool _ to burn in hell for all of eternity, Horatio!”

“Jesus H. Christ, Ma.” Horatio pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to burn in hell because I missed a few masses.”

“That’s what they all say.” His mom said darkly. A horridly explosive crash echoed over the line. “Rochus, what have I told you carrying too many plates at once!”

“Okay,” Horatio hovered a hand above the hang up button. “Ma, I think I’m going to go.”

“Fine.” His mom sighed dramatically. “But remember: you need to be bigger, you’re better than that Hamlet kid in every conceivable way, and you’re not evil for having a demanding dick and an overactive imagination.”

Torn between being insulted and flattered, Horatio simply closed his eyes. “Love you, Ma.” He said earnestly.

“Love you too, baby.” His mom cooed. “Next time you come to visit, bring your friends. I’ll have Hamlet fattened up in no time.”

Horatio grimaced. He was certain Hamlet would die if he ever tried to digest his mother’s over-rich cooking. “I’ll see. Love you.”

He gave himself exactly fifteen more seconds to be curled in a ball of violent guilt and regret before rising. He plucked his phone off the floor and checked his messages. Amazingly, there was nothing. Maybe that meant Hamlet’s talk with Ophelia had went well? He hoped it had. His mom was right, after all. This was just a crush. A normal, average, run of the mill crush, made worse by guilt and dreams, yes, but still manageable. Hamlet was probably apologizing for whatever he did to Ophelia right now. Ophelia would forgive him because she was Ophelia and they’d be straight back to being the conservatory’s most attractive, interesting couple. And Horatio, well, he had his one true love already. His play. That’s what he should be focusing on.

Horatio carefully placed his foil back into the bag and zipped it up. He checked his watch. One hour till his next class. That gave him just enough time to take another look at casting possibilities. He’d already decided on Hamlet for the lead, obviously, and Maria was just about set but he still needed an Imogen. Surprisingly enough, the main contender from his pool so far was Fortinbras. She was a little rough around the edges, admittedly, but Horatio prided himself on seeing potential and she had the exact level of confidence he needed to make the character truly work.

As Horatio strode away from the gym, he tucked his phone in his backpack. Three hours. He wouldn’t pay attention to his phone for three hours and then he could field texts from Hamlet or Ophelia again. Then, once his friends were back on solid ground, Horatio could dedicate himself to his work completely and maybe that would be enough to bury his lust for good. Neither Hamlet nor Ophelia would ever have to know this had even happened. Until then, well...

Nobody’s ever really gotten hurt because of a silly little crush.

* * *

Hamlet stared Ophelia down for what felt like eons. He took in her face; her olive-toned skin, heart-shaped jaw. Her features were framed by the soft but unkept curls of her hair. She had beautifully dark eyes, which right now looked to be fixed on trying to tear his soul out of his body. He knew one other person with eyes like that who looked at him with the same disgust. Amazing how his mother was entirely inescapable.

“Ophelia?” He said, unable to break eye contact. She appeared to bristle when he spoke. He took a breath. “I’ve never done anything with him.” He finally managed to get control over his voice. He could go scream later. “We’re normal friends.”

“Yeah, right,” Ophelia scoffed. “Because touching his thighs is so normal.”

“It meant nothing!” Hamlet shouted. He was more or less pulling uncertainty out of thin air, and he kind of knew that she knew it. But still. Horatio never specifically said that he wanted to fuck him. Ergo, plausible deniability. “I didn’t do anything.” He forced himself to take another breath. “He’s never made any sort of indication that he’d even want to do anything,” he lied. It didn’t take a genius to notice his friend’s arousal. By Hamlet’s best estimate, Horatio’s dick was over seven inches. Not that he’d spent a long time thinking about it last night. 

He watched Ophelia’s face for any shred of understanding or calm. Of course, he didn’t really deserve it. It wasn’t like he ever discouraged Horatio. In fact, he more or less made a game for himself of flirting with him. He needed it in order to keep him around.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Ophelia finally said. Were there tears in her eyes? “I have a lot of work I need to do, and I need to be alone.”

Hamlet considered protesting. He could yell at her that she was being homophobic, and that it wasn’t fair to Horatio to assume that he wanted to fuck him just because he was into guys and got hard in his sleep a couple times. But Ophelia wasn’t straight, which meant that she was immune to such an accusation, and she’d (hopefully) never noticed Horatio’s dick.

“Okay,” Hamlet finally said. “Yeah. Okay. Call me later.” He grabbed his bag and left.

He had a few options of where to go. He could return to Juilliard and do some homework. Maybe find another single-stall bathroom to cry in. Or he could go home. He was, however, out of vodka and more importantly too sick of feeling hungover to consider binge drinking again. He could call someone. Horatio would be his first pick. It might rub salt in Ophelia’s wounds, though. It might rub salt in  his wounds. He found he didn’t particularly care.

The phone rang. And rang. He couldn’t actually remember Horatio ever ignoring one of his calls. He wasn’t at fencing practice, so he wouldn’t be busy. A void opened up in his chest. Was he mad at him too? That didn’t make sense. Hamlet hadn’t said anything bad to him in the past day and a half. He hung up once he heard Horatio’s dumb little voicemail phrase, opting to text instead. A voicemail might make him sound desperate.

_ 2:06PM _

_ Horatio, pick up your fucking phone. _

He walked another block. What if this was it? Ophelia was going to leave him. Maybe Horatio wasn’t picking up because he was in on her plans and had already decided to stay with her instead. Hamlet felt the sickening chill of fear and betrayal. Of course it would make sense for him to choose her. She was sweet to him, and they were friends. Ophelia had that effect on people; getting them to like her was easy. Hamlet resented that about her. Even when he tried to be nice people didn’t believe him. He was always acting, even when he wasn’t. No one was ever willing to believe him when he was honest. Why would they? His entire career was based around making himself into convincing fictional characters. Maybe his mother was right and he should just go back to Paris. Selling his soul to the fashion industry might hurt less than whatever he was doing now.

He made it one more block before his foot hurt too much and he was too anxious to stay standing. He hailed a cab. He browsed flights to Paris on his phone. The earliest he could possibly stand to go was the 7PM one. He bookmarked it just in case, then called Horatio again. All he reached was the voicemail.

“Horatio, I need you to answer your goddamn fucking phone right now,” Hamlet said stiffly into the cellphone. Once he was talking out loud he found it difficult to keep his tone even. “I- I think Ophelia might be breaking up with me,” he said quietly. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep himself from crying. “I need you to tell me if I’m right. I know she’d probably tell you before she’d tell me.” He took a shaky breath. “Please. I...understand if you won’t speak to me after she does it, but I just want to know if it’s really happening.” He hung up and let himself cry for the rest of the way to school.

Once the cab pulled to the side of the road and he paid, Hamlet headed towards the library. Horatio would be hidden in his usual editing spot, which meant that he could just go and ask him directly about what was going on. He ran up the stairs and into the stacks, the route to his friend’s hiding spot well memorized after nearly four years.

“Horatio,” he said between breaths as he found him in one of the better hidden group study rooms. “I need you to tell me if Ophelia is breaking up with me, and I don’t care if she’s already told you never to talk to me again,” he said sharply. Horatio looked up at him in confusion, taking out his earbuds. Hamlet glowered at the fact that he’d wasted a grand entrance.

“What did you say?” Horatio asked.

“I  _said_, I don’t care whether or not you’ve promised Ophelia never to talk to me again, I just need to know whether or not she’s breaking up with me!” He said, quite a bit louder than was library appropriate. Horatio just stared at him with intelligent yet slightly lost green eyes.

“...Have you been crying?” Horatio finally asked.

“That’s not the point!” Hamlet cried. He opened his phone, bringing up the bookmark of the Paris flight. Might as well just leave and go suffer overseas. His hands shook as he tried to type in his credit card info, only to be stopped by Horatio’s hand on his wrist.

“What’s wrong?” Horatio asked gently, glancing down at the phone. “Are you buying a plane ticket home?”

“It’s not home,” Hamlet swiped at the tears that threatened to soak his cheeks. “Mother called and asked me to come back to Paris for a fashion show.” He took a sharp breath. Horatio didn’t have to know much beyond that. “I wasn’t going to go, but if you and Ophelia want me gone then I might as well leave.” Against his will, he was more or less weeping. Something about the library always made it so much harder not to cry.

“Who said anything about wanting you gone?” Horatio asked, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Hamlet could feel the warmth of his palm through the lightweight cashmere sweater he wore, and he found it slightly easier to catch his breath.

“Ophelia hates me,” Hamlet hid his face in his hands. “All I tried to do was help and I only made it worse and now she hates me.”

“She didn’t say anything about that to me,” Horatio reassured. He gestured to an open chair beside him. “Do you want to maybe sit?” He asked. Hamlet sat on the floor by Horatio’s chair, resting his head against his knee. Sure, the linoleum floor wasn’t nearly clean enough, but desperate times called for desperate measures and he knew for certain he’d scream if Horatio moved his hand away from his shoulder.

“I should die,” Hamlet sobbed into Horatio’s jeans. “My dad was murdered, Ophelia hates my guts, and I should just die.”

“Shh,” Horatio placed his other hand against the nape of his neck, gently stroking his hair with his fingertips. “Your dad wasn’t murdered, it was just a really shitty accident,” Horatio’s voice had dropped to a soothing whisper, only barely audible over Hamlet’s shallow breaths. He shook his head.

“He was killed,” Hamlet said raggedly. Thinking about his dad was a bad idea. He was having trouble working in decent breaths as he keened into his hands. He felt Horatio move, sending blind panic through his already-wrecked system. “No! Don’t leave!” He shouted, catching Horatio’s hand before he pulled away. As he looked at him, however, he saw that he was just coming down to join him on the floor.

“I’m not leaving,” Horatio said calmly. “Can I take you back to your apartment?”

Hamlet shook his head. He didn’t want to be alone. If he was alone he’d need to actually think about what was going on; about his dad, and Ophelia. He wasn’t ready to face the prospect of losing more people.

“What if I stay with you?” Horatio had returned to running his hands through his hair, allowing Hamlet enough relief to breathe. He took a few heavy, deep breaths and managed to nod. “I do need to work on the play, though,” Horatio added softly.

“That’s fine,” Hamlet forced himself to recover, wiping his eyes. “I’ll call Osric.”

The ride back to the apartment was stiff and quiet, probably due to the fact that Hamlet couldn’t recall seeking out Horatio during one of his crying fits since maybe first year. He’d feel bad about it later, he was sure. He felt a little bad about it now, as they pulled up to the building.

“Mr. Kierkegaard, Mr. di Levanti,” Bernardo said politely. If he noticed Hamlet’s eyes, he said nothing. Smart receptionist. Hamlet stormed towards the elevator, with Horatio close behind.

The second he was in his house he peeled off his outdoor clothes and climbed into bed. Horatio moved to seat himself in a chair, sending another swarm of nerves through Hamlet’s body. He sat up. “You can sit on the bed,” he said, as nonchalantly as possible, making good use of the acting coaching.

“I’m wearing messy outside clothes,” Horatio raised an eyebrow at him.

“I…” Hamlet  _ did _ care. Outdoors clothes meant that at the very least they had New York air on them, which was by definition dirty. He did the mental math. “Just this once, I’ll let you.”

He saw something deepen in Horatio’s face. Concern, maybe. But he picked up his laptop and notebook and got in beside him on the bed. Hamlet took a silent breath of relief, letting himself settle into the plush pillows. He slid closer to Horatio; just enough so that he could press lightly against his side and be reassured that he was still there. Sure, it broke the six-inch rule. But evidently that hadn’t been enough in the first place.

“Don’t tell Ophelia you’re here,” Hamlet said quietly as he closed his eyes.

“What?” Horatio asked. “Why?”

“Just don’t,” Hamlet said as he turned onto his side, back facing Horatio. “Also, you need to get the ouija board next time you’re back stage.”

“Okay? Why?”

“Just do it.” With that, he let himself drift into worried half-sleep.


	8. Bloodshed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia talks to her dad. Horatio shuts down. Hamlet's in denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for sticking with us, and I hope you're enjoying our work as much as we enjoy making it! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: descriptions of violent death.

Ophelia was thirteen goddamn years old the last time she had to pull out this many seams. She would have given anything on the face of the earth to be working on something other than Hamlet’s costume, but the rest of the cast hadn’t been measured yet. So, she was stuck. Completely and utterly stuck, which meant she had to climb the fabric ladder again. To get yet another few yards of fucking tweed.  Again .

“Ophelia! What in the devil’s name are you doing?” A voice snapped below her.

“Dad!” Ophelia yelped as she almost fell off the ladder. “I’m just getting more material for Denton’s jacket.” Polonius hobbled over to her desk and completely ignored her. “Dad, are we really doing this?” Still more silence. Ophelia sighed. “Polonius, I’m getting more fabric for Denton’s jacket. Now, will you please stop going through my sketches. I’ve got everything under control.”

“This doesn’t seem like under control,” Polonius said as used his cane to move a heap of houndstooth that should have been a jacket.

“I’m just struggling. I love Horatio to death, but Gilded-Era menswear is just the worst.” Ophelia skipped down the ladder and threw the bolt of fabric over the table.

“Hmm,” Polonius circled her like a shark. “This seems like more than aesthetic distaste.” Ophelia sat at her desk and threw her sketchbook in the drawer. God, here they go. Intense personal conversations with Dad where everyone and God could hear them. Because they couldn’t talk at home like normal people.

“It’s nothing, the pattern’s just weird. I’ve got to get to work.”

“I know my Ophelia knows how to sew a suit jacket. What’s the matter?” Polonius sat on her basket of scrap material. My Ophelia. They were very quickly moving out of the realm of a comfortable, if strange, co-worker relationship to something more familial. “Was it Hamlet? I keep telling you that boy is nothing but trouble.

“I know you do.” Ophelia worked hard to keep her face neutral.

“Why both of my children ended up falling head over heals for that drowned Scandinavian rat, I’ll have no idea. You’re better off leaving him and finding someone more your station.”

“My station? Dad, it’s 2014, not the 1850s. There’s no such thing as ‘my station,’” Ophelia huffed.

“I would hope that children of mine would consider ‘their station’ something higher than a rodent.” Polonius started clearing away a spot on the desk. Ophelia winced as her nice silk touched the ground.

“You’ve got to stop saying that. It’s rude and not true.” Ophelia folded the fabric over her arms. As soon as she had Fortinbras’ measurements, she was going to make the prettiest fucking dress anyone has ever seen. And then there was Maria, too. Ophelia would figure it out.

“It is absolutely true. If you think your grandmother would want to see you doting on a vampiric socialist, then you’ve got another thing coming, my dear,” Polonius laughed at his own comment before turning an empathetic eye towards his daughter. “But honestly, what did he do this time to get you so upset? Sadness is an unbecoming look on you, my Lamb.”

Ophelia took a deep breath and moved to close the door. If they were doing this now, then they would not be interrupted. “We were just having an argument about why I was upset. I told him it was because of a dream, which is true, and he just had to go an make it his fault.” Polonius cocked his head,  and she just kept going. No point in delaying the inevitable. “And it wasn’t his fault, until he insisted it had to be and then he brought up Horatio!” She could feel herself tearing up.

“Horatio?” Polonius asked.

“Well, I brought up Horatio because he’s a wonderful friend and he’s a great part of Hamlet’s life.”

“I’m not quite seeing the conflict here,” Polonius mused as he rubbed his beard like an old philosopher.

“Exactly! There is no conflict!” Ophelia buried her head in her hands. “And then he got super defensive about him and Horatio  _ just _ being friends.”

“I see, do you think they’re...more than friends?” It was the first good question Polonius has asked all day.

“No! Not at all! Horatio would never do that to me. Not once in a million years. It’s fine that he has feelings! Who wouldn’t have feelings for Hamlet?” Ophelia sobbed into a piece of discarded lycra.

“Do you think  _Hamlet_ would do that to you?” Another good question. Ophelia wished she could teleport herself back to her room so she could cry in peace.

“No. I don’t...I don’t know. It’s also fine that he has feelings for Horatio. It’s normal and I don’t have confidence problems. I know I’m good enough for him. It’s just, why would he lie about it just to make conflict? It’s like he only knows how to be human if he’s fighting someone.” Ophelia looked up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “And he chose to fight me. Why me and not his bitch of a mother or his uncle-father-thing?”

Her father held her hand and rubbed soothing circles into her knuckles. “I don’t think this is your problem to be dealing with.”

“But he’s making it my problem and all I want is for him to be honest with me about his feelings. We’ve worked through so much worse. A crush on Horatio just isn’t that big of a deal.”

“Have you told him that? You could solve your problems easily if you were also open about your feelings. Your mother was the same way, god bless her soul. All ideas and action, no practical application. That’s why she had me.” Polonius smiled sadly.

“I would love to, but he left my studio bawling his eyes out,” Ophelia took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “Do you think he knows he’s my friend?”

“Have you told him? He’s a delusional, sycophantic mess, but he’s not a mind reader. ” Polonius handed Ophelia a Hershey’s kiss. “For these trying times.”

“No, I guess I haven’t,” Ophelia said sheepishly as she unwrapped the chocolate. “It should be obvious. Why on earth would I date someone I couldn’t be friends with?”

“It should be, but it isn’t always. Hamlet also has problems--”

Ophelia cut him off. “I know, I know we’ve been over this a million times--”

“And you are twenty years old.” Polonius raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you obtained a psychology degree I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Have you become a certified therapist?”

“No, Dad, I’m just trying to be there for him.”

“There’s being there as a friend and there’s being there as something else. Unless your career path changes radically, you can only be there as a friend.” Polonius placed another Hershey’s kiss in front of her.

“That’s...more or less what Laertes told me,” Ophelia sighed.

“Of course he did. I’ve raised my son well. And I bet he also told you that you need to take care of yourself every once in a while?”

“Yes, Dad.” Ophelia smiled.

“Good, I’ve done a good job.” His eyes beamed with pride. “You should date someone more like your brother. Date Horatio.”

“Dad, you absolutely cannot say that.” Ophelia pushed her chair back in horror.

“What? Horatio is a perfectly nice boy. Catholic too. You wouldn’t have to worry about any of the religious differences hoo-ha. And Laertes tells me he’s an excellent fencer. He’s smart, talented, cute. I don’t know what there’s not to fall in love with.” Polonius stared into the space above Ophelia’s head as if he himself were imagining dating Horatio.

“No, Horatio’s great. Very gay, but very great. I cannot date someone like Laertes. That’s too weird. You’d never want me to live like that.”

“But Ophelia. Think of the wedding! The decadence! I could get my friends to design the flowers and the cake and I can do the dress. You just need some Catholic kid with your brother’s heart. Is that too much to ask?” Polonius smiled wickedly and Ophelia knew it was a rare joke.

She smiled too. “The only Catholic boy with my brother’s heart is my brother.”

“Are you feeling better, Lamb?” he asked, once again holding her hand. “I don’t give a hoot about Hamlet’s problems. You said you were upset about something else?”

“Yeah, it was just a dream, Dad. About Fortinbras.” Ophelia accepted his hand, but couldn’t make eye contact. 

“The weird boy from ...oh I can’t remember it’s name. That college down the street where people are supposed to be smart.”

“Columbia?” Ophelia asked. “The one Laertes goes to?”

“That’s the one. That boy seems sweet. A little awkward, but you could get through to him. You’ve always had the charisma that me and Laertes lack.”

“Dad, he’s a she and that’s the problem. I think I might have,” Ophelia took a deep breath. “Some sort of feelings for her too.”

“I thought you just got done telling me how it was okay to have those types of feelings. You just need to handle them.” Polonius smirked.

“It’s okay when Hamlet or Horatio has them, but not--”

“Do I need to set your brother on you again? Why on earth should you hold yourself to a higher standard? It makes no sense. It’s like you said, just talk about it and it will turn out alright.”

“But what if--” Ophelia tried to whisper.

“So what if he leaves you? You’ll be all the better for it! If that hypocritical pig can’t see the worth in my daughter then he can have fun sauntering right on down to hell,” Polonius shouted.

“Dad--” Ophelia was thoroughly taken aback.

“You should date this Fortinbras instead. If it works out, it works out. If it doesn’t, you can turn around and watch Hamlet come crawling back, begging your forgiveness. It’s a win-win situation if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” she said.

Polonius pushed her hair out of her eyes. “All dogs pale in the glory of a wolf. You’ll be fine, no matter what happens. Anyway, I’ve bothered you for long enough. Just get Hamlet a jacket from the loft. There’s no reason to spend time and energy on forcing him to look beautiful.”

“Are you sure?” Ophelia asked. “It won’t be as tailored.”

“Ehh, I can alter it in my spare time. Work your magic on Imogen and Maria. Leave the bastard to me.” The corners of Polonius’ mouth turned up as he swore.

“Okay, Dad.” Ophelia smiled in earnest. “Thanks for the talk.”

Ophelia spent a sold fifteen minutes shuffling through the costume loft before she found anything even remotely period accurate. The ghosts of costume designers past did a terrible job of, well, everything. She forced herself into a corner and was met with a face full of spiderweb and one very pissed off spider. This. This was why she did all of her own work. So she didn’t have to deal with real spiders.

As she hung another possible contender across her arm she could have sworn she heard someone shuffling around. That didn’t make sense. No one else would ever want to be here. It was a horrid mess of old fabric and used shoes.

“Um, do you need any help?” She asked her nameless visitor. Maybe it was the theater ghost come to exact his revenge. That would be sweet.

“Uh, no. No, everything’s fine,” it answered, the timbre of its voice overwhelmingly familiar.

“Horatio?” Ophelia practically slid down the ladder. “Why the hell are you doing your own manual labor? Don’t you have actors to direct? I can handle anything you have to throw--” Ophelia caught something out of the corner of her eye. “Is that the ouija board?”

“Uh, yeah, I just need it for. Things.” Horatio’s eyes darted back and forth in the dark.

“Things,” Ophelia said.

“Things.” Horatio repeated.

They had an intense stare off before Ophelia broke. “Have you seen Hamlet lately? We had another argument and it went...poorly. I really want to call him, but I’m afraid he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“I’ve seen him.” It was intensely suspicious that he didn’t give out more information.

“Just, can you tell him I’m sorry I overreacted. I know it’s not great to get you to be a messenger, but I need him to know I’m not angry with him and we can work through these things together.”

* * *

“I can tell him that.” Horatio nodded, completely aware that he hadn’t processed anything Ophelia had just said and that he would forget everything in about three seconds. She probably wanted Hamlet to know she wasn’t mad anymore. That was a fair bet. Horatio smiled and nodded again, holding the ouija board closer to his chest like a protective shield. “Sounds good.” He said as Ophelia continued speaking. “Definitely.”

He glanced to hall light just beyond Ophelia’s figure as his mind continued to supply a ready-made script. “You’re justified in that response,” he said calmly while calculating exactly how fast he could make it out of the room before Ophelia started asking him more specific questions about Hamlet.

Being sworn to secrecy was highly guilt-inducing, especially since he couldn’t seem to figure out why he’d been asked to lie in the first place. With a solid half of his brain arguing fervently that Ophelia was his friend and deserved to know what was going on with Hamlet while the other half held fast to the belief that Hamlet must have a reason for concealment, Horatio found himself firmly stuck in a position where no decision seemed to be the right decision. Then, of course, there was Hamlet’s crying fit and the darker bags under Ophelia’s eyes and the small, devilish worm of delight that, out of the two of them,  _he_ was the one Hamlet had chosen to turn to in his time of trouble; to rely on, to give a secret Ophelia couldn’t know.

Horrible, horrible, horrible! This was living agony and Horatio was boiling in hell!

“No, I totally agree.” Horatio said smoothly. “I think he’s right.”

Plus the ouija board. That was concerning. He was under the impression that Hamlet didn’t believe in ghosts. The board had always been a game after all, an excuse for the three of them to drink away post and pre show stress since first year. The only reason Horatio took it seriously was because he’d always been the one to commune with the spirits and, well, his hands didn’t move on their own. Hamlet seemed so sure his dad had been murdered…

“Maybe you could call him later?” Horatio forced his fickle mind to pay attention to Ophelia as he reached the end of his practiced remarks. He trailed off as he saw Ophelia raise an eyebrow.

“I should call  _ you _ _?_” She asked flatly, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“What?” Horatio blinked. Okay, shit, she’d gone off script. “I mean-”

“You weren’t paying attention at all, were you?” Ophelia asked.

“Uh…” Horatio scrambled for something to say and came up blank. “No.”

Ophelia’s expression was halfway to unreadable but hints of disappointment and irritation leaked through. He’d hit some button, more than a few times, if her taught frown was any indication.

“I’m really sorry.” Horatio said and at least that wasn’t associated with a lie. “I’m very distracted right now.”

“With Hamlet?” Ophelia asked tiredly.

“With spirits.” Horatio supplied instead.

Ophelia’s frown deepened as she studied the board still clutched in his arms. “Are you having a drinking night?” The  _without me_ was a wicked noose of implication.

Horatio swallowed. “No drinking.” He said, choosing his words carefully. “The other night got me thinking and, well...I’ve never actually done a seance while not wine drunk. I wanted to see if I could manage.” He flashed a hesitant smile. “It might help put Hamlet at ease about the ghost thing too if I could get some real answers.”

Ophelia nodded, suddenly flashing with determination. “That’s a good idea.” She said. “I’ll help you.”

“Nope.” Horatio stepped away as Ophelia approached, backing into a shelf full of loose clothes. “I need to do it without you. To make sure there aren’t any outside influences on my communication.”

White lies. Half-truths. Horatio fought off the pinpricks of needles piercing his chest. Nothing harmful. He wasn’t actually lying to Ophelia or hurting her or making things worse between her and Hamlet by involving himself as a third party sort of on Hamlet’s side. He wasn’t really on Hamlet’s side, after all, he was just helping him with something that needed to be done.

Right?

Horatio took a breath and fixed his shallow smile. “It’s getting pretty late. Maybe you should head home? I already sent the cast away and you look beat.”

“I’m fine.” Ophelia said sharply and Horatio’s heart plummeted. Now she was mad at him, too. Ophelia never got mad at him. It was just unheard of.

“Are you sure?” Horatio pressed. “I think-”

“I said I’m fine, Horatio.” Ophelia emphasized. She snatched a seemingly random coat from the shelf and began to stalk from the room, only to stop short. She sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you’re stressed because of the play and Hamlet stuff. I’m just having a rough time right now.”

The apology made Horatio feel, if possible, even worse, but he still smiled in understanding. “It’s okay. If you need to talk, tomorrow I swear I’ll be more focused. We could grab coffee before rehearsal? Go to that super hole-in-the-wall place you like.”

“Maybe.” Ophelia mused as if deep in thought. “I’ll, uh...I’ll text you.”

“Cool.” Horatio said evenly. “Talk to you later.”

The second she was gone, he sat down on the floor. Okay. Okay, he’d handled that fine. And by fine he meant badly, poorly, horrifically but it was done in any case and now he maybe had plans to talk with Ophelia about what was bothering her tomorrow, which was great. Or at least something.

Horatio allowed his running brain to settle, even out, then cycle into the next task. Ghosts. Hamlet. Ghost of Hamlet. He needed to help Hamlet now.

He stood, brushed a few cobwebs off his jeans, and made his way up to the catwalk.

Hamlet was already waiting for him, armed with a somehow impeccable appearance and a brightly colored jacket. Horatio slowed in his approach.

“Where did you get-” He started to ask.

“My dad’s.” Hamlet cut him off shortly. “I figured it could help.”

Horatio nodded. It probably would be good to have, if not to appeal to the ghost then as a kind of comfort object for Hamlet. Horatio sat down on the cool mesh grating and placed the ouija board between him and Hamlet before glancing up.

“How are you doing?” He asked seriously.

“I’m fine.” Hamlet said in a totally believable way. “So are we doing this now or-”

“I think we should wait until everyone is out of the theater.” Horatio inserted. “I don’t think it would be great for the lead of the play and the director to be caught playing occult in the rafters on a practice night.”

“It’s nearly nine.” Hamlet twisted the sleeve of the jacket in irritation or, more likely, nervousness. “Who would still be here?”

“Polonius.” Horatio answered simply and Hamlet groaned. Horatio briefly considered mentioning that he’d seen Ophelia too but then thought better of it. He had to get through the ghost issue before he could properly deal with the ‘lying to your girlfriend is unethical’ situation.

Horatio gathered the bright red planchette and placed it on the board. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll wait about an hour or so and then begin. Maybe in the meantime we could talk about…”

He trailed as the wooden block beneath his fingers twitched. Horatio stared at it intently for a moment, waiting for rationality to give some explanation to the movement or for the piece to shift again but it lay dormant.

“What is it?” Hamlet finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t know.” Horatio said truthfully. “I haven’t done anything yet, so I don’t understand why it would be moving.”

“Maybe the spirit is eager to talk to us.” Hamlet muttered, dark gaze never straying from the ouija board. He reached a hand forward as if to touch the planchette but rapidly withdrew. “Is it the same-”

The block lurched towards YES faster than Horatio could blink and he found himself halfway draped across the board from the whiplash of the sudden motion. As he attempted to draw the piece back to the middle, he found it unmovable, and his heart quickened a step. He drew a shaky breath. This was so much more terrifying without alcohol.

“Hamlet,” Horatio said slowly, “keep talking to him.”

In the corner of his eye, Horatio could see Hamlet shift in place, fingers hovering nervously by the edge of the board. “I thought you were supposed to be the medium?” Hamlet asked.

“I am.” Horatio drew calmness into his voice and pushed it out purposefully, hoping to communicate a sense of peace to both the shaking Hamlet and the now definitely real ghost. “But he’s responding to you.”

“I…” Hamlet paused. “Okay. Hello, uh, spirit…” he halted again, a small hitch in his tone, and Horatio desperately wished he could do something to comfort his friend but, as it was, he didn’t dare break his stare with the board.

“Hello, uh…” Hamlet took a hard breath. “Hey, Dad.”

The planchette seemed to vibrate beneath Horatio’s fingers as it dragged out a new message. H-E-L-L-O H-A-M-L-E-T. Horatio swore he could feel the excitement radiating off the board, circling up and through his palms. It was a pleasant but altogether unwelcome intrusion on his attention and Horatio sought to distance it before the realization set in that it may be more useful to harness. He needed to know if this spirit meant Hamlet harm.

Horatio pressed his fingertips harder against the planchette and poured his focus into reading the energy within.

“H-hey, Dad.” Hamlet continued, voice bridging from edged to fully shaking. “I, uh...we talked before.”

YES. V-O-D-K-A. The board spelled back, a brief pulse of worry squirming through the spirit’s excitement.

“Yeah,” Hamlet laughed weakly, “vodka. I wanted to-”

J-A-C-K-E-T. The planchette increased its pace to a dizzying speed or maybe it just felt dizzying to Horatio. S-K-I-I-N-G, S-W-I-T-Z-E-R-L-A-N-D, T-R-I-P, M-O-T-H-E-R, C-A-B-I-N. A slight nausea was settling over Horatio now as wave after wave of colorful, conflicting emotions seemed to pour into him, skittering up his arms and spreading through his chest and brain. Contentment, excitement, fear, guilt, joy, pride, more fear; it was getting hard to keep his pace as the planchette dragged his hand around in tight circles. He should have brought wine. He needed to stop.

“Dad, yeah, I-” Hamlet was talking again but Horatio could only hear vague bits and pieces. “Mother-” Hamlet said in fragments. “How did- Claudius- Death-”

The planchette stopped.

It took Horatio a few minutes to recognize the heavy breathing filling his ears as his own. He searched the board for any more movement but whatever was possessing it appeared to have gone, leaving only silence and a string of profanities from Hamlet.

“Horatio,” he heard Hamlet order, “where did he go? Bring him back!”

Horatio shook his head. Nothing. He tried to sit back but his fingers wouldn’t budge. They were stuck, stuck to the planchette. He frowned and attempted to ask Hamlet what was going on but his voice was frozen, too; lodged deep in his throat. He stared at his hands, trying to determine the best way to alert Hamlet to his condition without inciting panic.

Something wet and sticky dripped between his fingers. Horatio blinked at them. There was nothing there but now the feeling was crawling up his arm; the same damp sensation, warm, running in rivets. Horatio couldn’t breathe. Horatio couldn’t think. There was only streaming wetness and a pain creeping across his chest, gradually growing to an ache which became a shot of ice which became pouring blood, everywhere, everywhere and it hurt so much Horatio couldn’t even see straight.

A pair of hands snatched his wrists and Horatio finally screamed.

* * *

“Horatio!” Hamlet shouted, prying his friend’s fingers from the planchette. He shoved the board to one side, closing the distance between the two of them. He pulled Horatio’s head against his chest, running his fingers through his overgrown curls. “Breathe,” he commanded, even though his voice faltered. Horatio gasped desperately for air. “Come on, it’s okay,” he said quietly, holding Horatio’s hand tightly.

Horatio seemed to finally get a decent breath in, and that led him into sobs. Hamlet felt stuck; he’d never seen Horatio cry. Sure, he’d seen him tear up in frustration or because he was drunk and overwhelmed by love for F. Scott Fitzgerald, but never  cry . Seemingly recovering control over his body, Horatio clutched at his hand, tightly enough that it hurt. He rocked them both slightly, keeping one hand firmly at the back of Horatio’s head.

“What happened?” Hamlet asked as Horatio regained some composure.

“-Pain,” Horatio gasped into his chest. “I was...bleeding. From my chest.”

“No, you weren’t,” Hamlet said weakly. “Horatio, your stupid denim jacket is, well, not  clean exactly, but certainly not bloody.” A chill set over him. Maybe it wasn’t about Horatio. He shot a glance at the planchette, which still lay on the board. He could swear he saw it twinge towards ‘YES’ as he watched. His heart coiled in dread. “I-I think it was my dad,” Hamlet returned his attention to Horatio.

“It- I felt like,” Horatio said between breaths, letting go of his hand to touch his chest. “I thought I was shot.” Hamlet thought back to the dream; the reflection in the mirror. There was blood there. So much of it.

“It’s okay,” Hamlet whispered, becoming acutely aware of how badly Horatio was shaking against him. He searched his memory for things that helped Horatio calm down, but came up empty. Horatio didn’t panic. That was his job, or Ophelia’s. Without thinking about it, he kissed Horatio on the cheek, right below his cheekbone. This had the desired effect of causing the shaking to stop. He pressed his cheek against Horatio’s, leaning his weight against him. “Let’s go back to my apartment,” Hamlet said in a guilt-laden whisper.

“You-” Horatio started, cheeks a bright pink even in the low light.

“Don’t mention it,” Hamlet said, a little too fast. He pulled away and grabbed the board and planchette, placing it back in the box. He gathered up the coat and the box in his arms. “Come on. Can you walk?”

“Uh, yeah,” Horatio said dumbly, pulling himself to his feet.

They walked in stifled silence, leaving the theater through the back entrance just in case. Hamlet texted Osric, letting his brain scramble through the past hour. It felt like it had taken all night, but really their little seance was maybe half an hour, tops. He hugged the coat to his chest, as if it were a protective piece of armor. In some ways it was. Hamlet would never admit it, but he occasionally slept with it during the particularly awful nights of loneliness. He could avoid one tonight. There was no way he was letting Horatio leave his apartment after that nightmare.

He glanced to Horatio, who was standing exactly five feet away from him. The color was drained from his face, and he had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Hamlet sighed quietly, and wandered over. He wasn’t irritated, but concern was exhausting. Especially when he was unused to it. And he couldn’t even remember the last time he was concerned for Horatio. He was supposed to be the level one.

“Are you okay?” Hamlet asked. Horatio looked like he might cry again.

“I’m fine,” Horatio said after a pause.

“Don’t lie to me,” Hamlet said, coming off harsher than he intended. He took a breath, placing a hand under his jacket against his back. He felt his own cheeks flush as he felt the strong muscles of his back through the thin cotton t-shirt. “Are you okay?” He asked again.

“...I’ll be fine,” Horatio said stiffly. “You, uh. Really think it was your dad?”

“Who else would it be?” Hamlet said grimly. “And the blood you saw...it’s like in the mirror the other night.”

“Other night?” Horatio asked tensely.

“When you came. When I was drunk,” Hamlet said quietly. “In the bathroom. I saw him behind me, and he was…drenched.”

“In blood?”

“In blood,” Hamlet nodded. He removed his hand from Horatio’s back as Osric’s headlights illuminated the parking lot. “Osric is here.”

The apartment was still a bit of a mess from earlier, but it didn’t matter. Hamlet draped his father’s coat over the back of a chair, along with his own. Horatio collapsed into the couch, hugging a pillow against his chest miserably. Hamlet sat down beside him, uncomfortable at the mix of emotions vying for dominance in his stomach.

“Take off your filthy outside clothes and get into bed,” Hamlet finally said. “You can, uh. Borrow a shirt.” Hamlet said awkwardly.

“We don’t wear the same size,” Horatio said quietly.

“Then don’t wear a shirt,” Hamlet rolled his eyes. He realized the implication only after. “Or wear your t-shirt. Just...not your dusty jeans. I’m going to wash up.” He didn’t give Horatio a chance to respond before he disappeared into the bathroom.

He stared at himself in the mirror, waiting to see his father behind him. There was only the tile wall. He even tried closing his eyes or looking away and then looking back, but still. He was alone. He sighed and stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a heap as he ran the shower.

He let his thoughts wander while he waited for the conditioner to sink into his hair. Ghosts were real. That was a big one. He’d been suspicious the last few days but...this counted as undeniable. Horatio had even gotten...haunted? Possessed? It was unclear, and that made it scarier. If he remembered properly, Horatio was raised Catholic. He should probably offer to have Osric drive him to church or something. Souls and all that. But whatever happened confirmed another thing. Dad was murdered. No accident would result in someone getting shot in the chest.

There was the other thing, too. He’d given him a kiss. An innocent, chaste kiss on the cheek, but still more than he’d ever offered before. He normally saved kissing of all kinds for prospective partners, or at the very least hook-ups. Even worse, he liked it. He liked the heat of Horatio’s skin on his lips; the faint smell of his shampoo that clung to his curls. It felt a bit like his first kiss with Laertes, only with more fluttering and less all-consuming fire. His first kiss with Ophelia, maybe? Who was he kidding. He’d been so drunk the first time they made out that he could hardly remember the details except that he’d eaten her out and apparently spun some convincing enough poetry to get her to stay around after he spent the next morning vomiting.

Horatio was different. He was a friend. He was the only friend he had that didn’t hate him with and unfortunate mix of bitterness and lust. Even Ophelia was well on her way to leaving the sweet stage of sex and affection, diving towards the deep end of the disdain pool. And he’d believed she might work. She was the first one who seemed to legitimately like him for his layers; his foreign and unknown true personality that only sparked in slivers. She was meant to be reinforced. Unlike her brother, she was intended to last.

He rinsed his hair and moved onto his body. While he was meant to be lithe, Mother always stressed that bony was not the right look for men. Hence why his diet was approximately seven hundred calories higher per day than the one she forced on her female models. He’d been cutting corners with the almonds and the protein supplements, though. His hips had an unnatural point to them that they’d previously lack, and he had a collarbone that the Vogue girls would kill for. It was a wonder anyone wanted his body. Perhaps Ophelia’s distance made sense. He’d remember to set a reminder on his phone about the almonds.

He shut off the shower and dried himself off. Next step was the moisturizer, leave-in conditioner, and then the blow-dryer. He got to it, taking less care than he normally would. He scrunched his waves into the shape they were supposed to be and devoted fifteen minutes to carefully drying them on the low setting. He was nervous. He could feel it in his chest; the weight of it between his lungs. Anticipatory, almost, even though the only thing waiting for him was Horatio. Who, if he correctly recalled, had been commanded out of his clothes. Hamlet bit his lip, forcing down the thoughts of what sleeping beside him would feel like, clad in nothing but boxers and sobriety. He was glad his bathrobe was plush enough to hide the effects.

He left the bathroom and pulled on his pajamas before stopping to look at Horatio. Once safely hidden behind two layers of cloth, he moved to the bed. It was only 10:30, but it had been a long day and neither of them slept fantastically on the couch. Horatio lay on his side, awake but unmoving, staring blankly into the middle distance. He jumped as Hamlet placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s me,” Hamlet said quietly. “Are you okay?” Horatio looked...rough. He had dark circles under his eyes from three consecutive bad nights, and his light brown hair looked like it had seen some better days in terms of combing.

“Yup, I’m alright,” Horatio said with a clearly-faked smile. Hamlet shed his bathrobe, draping it at the foot of the bed before he settled under the covers.

“You’re bad at lying,” Hamlet said flatly.

Horatio glanced away. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Hamlet reached out a hand and brushed the hair out of his face. He felt something shift in him as Horatio closed his eyes, long lashes sending feathery shadows down his cheeks as he leaned ever so slightly into his hand. He breathed a sigh, desire to be held fighting against his emotional and physical boundaries. Who was he kidding? Ophelia was probably drafting her break-up speech to him this very instant. It was the only possible reason for why she hadn’t texted or called him or Horatio in the past four hours.

“What are you doing?” Horatio’s voiced pitched high as Hamlet turned his back to him, pulling his arms around his chest.

“You’re going to have to hold me closer,” Hamlet sighed as Horatio managed to maintain nearly a foot between the two of them.

“I…” Horatio shut himself up. Perhaps he was weighing his own pros and cons. Whatever those reasons were, Horatio shifted himself over so that his chest was flush against Hamlet’s back. He could feel his rapid heartbeat through the paper-thin silk of his pajamas. He felt his own blood pressure rise and pulse downwards. Maybe this was a worse idea than he thought. He always got horny after he showered, after all. It was just that he usually ignored it or had Ophelia over to help. This was normal. He could just ignore it. He just needed to let it go and not do anything to make it worse.

The silence was oppressive. He felt acutely aware of his body, the rise and fall of Horatio’s chest, and how it felt to be folded in his arms. It could be a comfortable fit. It would be, except that they were apart from the waist down. He  _ knew _ they’d end up pressed completely together the moment they were asleep. He  _ knew _ that they’d end up feeling guilty in the morning for the inevitable consequences of sleeping so close together. It only served to make the temptation to swallow the guilt and sink against him now stronger. It wouldn’t mean anything. There was nothing it could mean. He knew better than anyone that lust meant nothing.

Horatio let his hand slide the three inches from his chest to his stomach and that was it. Lines were crossed, and there was no point in stalling. He relaxed into the curve of Horatio’s body, pressing close enough that there was no space between them. He felt his cheeks flush with heat as he felt the length of Horatio’s fully-aroused cock press against his ass, heat and pressure unbearably clear through the light cotton of his boxers and the sheer silk of his own pajama pants. He heard the smallest sound escape Horatio’s lips as his breath caught, and it was almost enough to send Hamlet spiraling out of his rational mind. He could hardly keep up with the urges: To moan; to grind his hips; to bring Horatio’s hands between his legs to grant him some relief. But he forced the impulses down. It was the shower and the shock of the day talking.

It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.


	9. Out, out, brief candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia cries. Horatio duels. Hamlet talks to his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for reading! Feel free to reach out, we love hearing your feedback! You can find us on tumblr @knightvanguard, @time-and-space-in-your-face, and @moth-femme.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Graphic descriptions of self-harm.

“Ophelia, I think I put the menswear next to the--Lamb?” Polonius gently touched Ophelia’s shoulder and she startled. “What are you looking at?”

“I was just...I was just talking to Horatio. Or, I was talking at him. It’s not a big deal,” she tried to pull away, but her knees were locked.

“You’re crying.” It wasn’t a question. “I can chase him out with a broom. Little boys do not get to make my daughter cry.”

“It’s fine, Dad.” Ophelia blushed as she hiccuped through her words.

Her father hugged her full against his chest. “I need to shoo the vermin out of my theater anyway,” he whispered as he stroked her hair. “Would you like to come home for dinner? You can talk to your abuelita. She will know what to do.”

“But,” Ophelia gasped and wiped the tears from her eyes. “You have a meeting with the person from the Met. It’s important--”

“Yes, yes, my Lamb, but not as important as you. These things can be rescheduled,” Polonius looked her in the eyes. 

Ophelia looked right back. “No, go to your meeting. It’ll be good for you; for all of us. I’ll go see Laertes. I promise I’ll come home over the weekend, okay?” She tried to sound confident, she really did, but her voice shook like a quail’s feather. “Tell Abuelita I love her?”

“I tell her every day,” Polonius smiled. “Go to your brother, I can close up the shop. I’ll chase away your little...friends.”

“I think...they’re doing something important,” Ophelia said as she grabbed her bag.

“Not important enough.” Polonius huffed before he disappeared into the theater.

Ophelia could take the subway to Laertes’ apartment. She could hail a taxi. Sure, it would be pretty expensive, but it would keep her out of the dark and out of the rain. She could even take the bus, which she often avoided because busses are worse than walking. But walking hurt and that was the point.

Laertes’ apartment was two miles away and despite the last dregs of summer heat, the rain was cold. Bitter cold. And her clothes didn’t do her any favors. Ordinarily she would care that her handiwork could be ruined by jackass drivers and an unfortunate mud puddle, but really, why care? Caring kept hurting and hurting and hurting. At least no one could tell she had been crying. Half an hour later, she was at Laertes’ apartment complex.

She hesitated as she sat of the edge of a couch. What if he wasn’t home? What if he was busy with work or friends or whatever it was he did? What if he didn’t want her either? No one wanted her.

“Ms. Ophelia, I can ring Laertes if you want him to come and get you,” the concierge said, appearing as cheerful as he was paid to be. He knew her on sight, of course, because she was needy and constantly sought her brother’s company. She did not know him. Sweet kid though, when he was being paid.

“That’s...fine,” she eventually said, before standing up and flashed her best I-am-not-about-to-have-a-nervous-breakdown smile. “I can just go up to him, if that’s alright.” Of course it was alright, it had always been alright before.

He let her into the elevator and she made her way to his door in a haze. No crying. She tried to school herself. Laertes hated it when she cried. She rapped on the door the same rhythm they had been using since they were kids. She heard the sound of him scrambling over multiple pieces of furniture to fling himself at the door.

“Jesus Christ!” he said as he looked her up and down. “Are Dad and  Abuelita okay? Did someone die? I can get the car ready in five minutes if we have to leave.” Laertes took a deep breath and looked, really looked, at Ophelia. “Did you walk in the rain?” She nodded. “All the way from Juilliard?” She nodded again.

Tears. There were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Apparently she had no force of will either. Perfect. “They’re fine,” Ophelia choked. “Nothing bad has happened.”

Laertes grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her inside. “Ophelia, what  happened ?” He guided her to a couch and let her cry into his chest.

“Hamlet…”

“I swear if I hear the name Hamlet wept one more time--”

“And Horatio. It’s Hamlet and Horatio.” Ophelia wished she could just shut up and cry like a normal person.

“Oh,” Laertes suddenly sounded very small. “It’s both of them?”

“They don’t want me,” Ophelia sobbed. “They’re never going to want me ever again.”

“I’m sure that’s not true...” he tried to reason.

“It is true. It is. I must have done something wrong, but I don’t know what and because I don’t know I can’t fix it, they’ll never want me. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” She was hyperventilating and she knew and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop it.

Laertes traced swirly designs into Ophelia’s back. “Why on earth would they hate you? It doesn’t make any sense, Ophie.”

Resorting to childhood nicknames. Perfect. And that’s how she knew she was really fucked. “They’re going to do a seance without me and Horatio lied about it and Hamlet hates me and, and, and--”

“They probably just wanted to hang out. It definitely has nothing to do with you.” Laertes hugged Ophelia and looked her in the eyes.

“But that was our thing. We’ve never done them without all of us. And I argued with Hamlet and Horatio said he didn’t want me there.” Ophelia buried her face in her brother’s shoulder.

“Ophie, they’re just inconsiderate asses. They probably didn’t even realize this would be important to you. If you called or texted I’m sure you could--” The phone rang and both the siblings jumped a mile. Laertes picked the phone off its receiver and pressed it to his ear.

“Hi Dad, what’s up?” he asked making pointed eye contact with Ophelia. “Yeah, yeah she’s here with me...she’s...fine, yeah she’s fine. We’re just talking. Why are you? Oh, okay, are you sure it was them? Really? Oh.  Oh. ” As Laertes left the room, Ophelia tried to catch his eye and give him a look that meant  _what the hell is happening_.

He clearly didn’t get the hint and so, Ophelia was alone again.

No, not again. Ophelia took a deep breath and pressed her ear against the door. It was silent for a long while before Laertes spoke again.

“Screaming? Why would he be screaming? Dad, that doesn’t make any sense...I know. I know I know what Horatio’s like...Dad...Dad, you’re not serious...No, you’ve got to be sure. 100% sure. I can’t just--” He lowered his voice, but Ophelia could still hear. “I can’t just tell her that...No, I can’t lie. If you’re sure...Dad, this is bad.”

Another long stretch of silence and Ophelia started constructing a million bad scenarios in her head. It was probably fine. Laertes had said. Dad was a theater person. He could be a bit dramatic.

“Back to his apartment?” Laertes asked his voice had sunk from rage to sadness. “Are you sure? She’s right here...No, Dad, she’s going to ask...I’m not going to lie to Ophelia, Dad!”

She didn’t hear the rest even though they talked for another five minutes. She returned to the couch and buried her face in a pillow. Her dad wasn't beholden to the same level of truthfulness that she and Laertes held themselves to, but he still rarely lied. And he knew how Ophelia and Laertes were with each other. He would never ask Laertes to lie. Never.

“Ophelia,” Laertes started as he crept back into the room and sat next to her on the couch. He moved like a baby deer. “I was just talking to Dad.”

“I know,” Ophelia said as she peered at him over the pillow.

“You remember when we promised we wouldn’t lie to each other. Anyone else was fair game, but not us--”

“Laertes, what happened?” Ophelia was an idiot. She shouldn’t ask questions she doesn’t want to know the answer to.

“Dad found Hamlet and Horatio in the catwalks doing the seance,” Laertes took a deep breath. “And then he heard Horatio screaming bloody murder--”

“Is he alright?” Ophelia asked.

“I don’t know. Probably? He probably just got scared by a ghost or something.”

“But he doesn’t believe--” she tried to argue.

“I know. I know he doesn’t” Laertes turned away. “Dad says he thinks he saw Hamlet kiss Horatio.”

Silence coiled around Ophelia’s throat like a feathered serpent. It hurt and everything went cold and dry. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. She swore it would never happen to her. Never. She wanted to scream or cry or something. Anything.

“What?” she asked

“I’m sorry, Ophelia.” Laertes enveloped her into a hug. “He doesn’t know for sure. Maybe he was just seeing things…” What words could he possibly say to make this any better? Nothing. There was nothing

“No, it makes sense,” Ophelia wept into her brother’s chest. “It’s what...It’s what he wanted us to fight about.”

“I’m sorry, Ophie. I really am.” Laertes rocked her back and forth. “I’ll...talk to Horatio after practice. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation--”

“They’re leaving me. Both of them. That’s it.”

Laertes pressed his cheek into the top of Ophelia’s head. “I expect this kind of behavior from Hamlet, but never Horatio.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be like all the others.”

“I know, I know. I’ll deal with Horatio tomorrow. Stay here tonight. We’ll grab breakfast before class.” Laertes frowned and continued to comfort Ophelia as she cried. 

* * *

Horatio woke up to softness and the smell of roses. In the blissful moments before awareness returned to him, he crowded closer to the source, tangling his arms around the other figure in the bed and burying his face into his downy hair. He sighed in contentment as the constricted, twisting ball within his chest began to dissolve, displaced by a small wave of warmth and a feeling something like fondness.

Then Hamlet shifted and he remembered.

Horatio sat up in bed, jostling Hamlet to one side as he ran a hand over his chest. He couldn’t see any blood but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He grabbed the edge of his shirt and started to pull it over his head before the  _other_ unsettling part of the evening violently resurfaced.

“Horatio?” Hamlet’s voice was sleep heavy but, in his usual fashion, also alert and ready. “What are you doing?”

Horatio released the hem of his shirt. He leaned towards Hamlet, hoping to discern whether the expression on his handsome face was more akin to guilt or unease, only to be alerted to the fact that he had bigger issues than murder or catwalk kisses by the press of his hips. When he met Hamlet’s awkward gaze, he knew that the other could tell it too.

“I…” Horatio felt his cheeks heat up. “I’m sorry about...that.”

“It’s fine.” Hamlet said too quickly.

“No, it’s, uh…” Horatio pulled the covers back over his waist, more to preserve his own sanity than to spare Hamlet, who undoubtedly had been exposed to the full length of his...length throughout the night. Of course, he had. Hamlet had been the one who leaned into him last night, who snuggled entirely against him and didn’t move away. Perhaps preserving his already ruined dignity? But, then again, this was Hamlet he was talking about.

“You kissed me.” Horatio said, both totally convinced and unconvinced of the statement’s validity. But, no. It had definitely happened. Chaste, quick, just a peck on the cheek. He could feel the ghosting of Hamlet’s soft lips against his skin, the aftermath of the thrill which shot through his body, intermingling with panic.

Panic? Since when did he panic?

“I…” Hamlet shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Horatio gaped at Hamlet as he crawled out of the bed. The other man set about sorting out various creams and other fancy bottles from the collection covering most of his drawers’ surface. “About the seance last night-” Hamlet began, obviously looking to change the subject.

“You  kissed me.” Horatio interjected more forcefully.

“On the cheek.” Hamlet deflected. “I was trying to comfort you.”

“You don’t do  _friendship_ kisses.” Horatio stressed his words. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve seen you willingly offer affection to anyone besides Ophelia and Laertes.”

“You were panicking. I needed some way to distract you.” Without looking at him, Hamlet gathered his supplies into his hands. “If you’ll excuse me-”

Horatio sprang from the bed and intercepted him, pushing the door closed. With one hand still on the handle, Hamlet glared at him. “Let me out.”

Horatio almost followed the order. Almost. “You kissed me.” He repeated again. “You’re dating Ophelia and you kissed me.”

A flashing of insecurity and grief crossed Hamlet’s graceful facade. “Yeah, well...I’m probably not dating her for much longer.”

“But you are now.” Horatio knew how his voice sounded and he hated it. He hated this weird lingering panic and unease strained through his chest, so foreign in his system. It was like having a stomach flu and a hangover at the same time and he felt utterly gutted.

Hamlet sighed in irritation. “It was a kiss on the cheek.” He said with the air of one teaching. “Not a marriage proposal. Here, I’ll even say no fucking homo if it makes you feel better. Can I go to the bathroom now?”

“How long have you known?” Horatio asked desperately.

“Known what?” Hamlet shot back.

“I don’t know.” Horatio said. “Known.  _Known_. ”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hamlet replied and Horatio could actually feel himself beginning to tear up in frustration. A fraction of the guardedness slid from Hamlet and he released the door handle. “Hey, are you okay?” He asked, stepping towards Horatio like a tourist approaching the subway during rush hour.

“I’m fine.” Horatio snapped. “I’m…” he ran a hand through his hair and tried to swallow down whatever aching, spewing mess of emotions had begun to swirl in the back of his throat. “I’m going to go.”

“Go?” Hamlet asked as Horatio stalked towards the couch. Now it was his turn to sound desperate. “But what about the seance? We really need to talk about it, my dad...” He paused. “You really don’t look good, Horatio.”

“I look fantastic.” Horatio bit back, pulling on his pants. Stupid fucking erection. He grabbed his jean jacket and yanked it on without looking back to Hamlet. “I believe you about your dad.” How could he not? He’d literally felt himself dying along with Hamlet Sr.

Murder. It was definitely murder. Nothing else could hurt that much, dredge up that much raw fear and regret and blinding hysteria.

“You believe me?” Hamlet asked as if in disbelief.

“I believe you.” Horatio confirmed. He glanced to his watch and grimaced. “I have class then studying to do and practice at five. Don’t text me. I’ll call you when I’m good and ready.”

He slammed the penthouse’s door just for good measure. The elevator ride down was short but just long enough for Horatio’s anger to wander back into the more familiar realm of deep, deep-seeded guilt. He fidgeted with the edge of his jacket. Hamlet had experienced a borderline psychological break only a few days ago. What if Horatio storming out combined with Ophelia drama and his dad’s murder pushed him into something reckless? What if Hamlet was telling the truth and Horatio was just overreacting?

Horatio pressed his head against the elevator’s plush backing. No. He wouldn’t have misread something as obvious as this. Light flirting was one thing but Horatio knew Hamlet and he knew his limits. He  _knew_ that whatever last night was, it had crossed boundaries, which meant that either Hamlet was aware of Horatio’s feelings and was using them as a form of manipulation or that he cared so little for Horatio that he couldn’t even be bothered to treat him with the same level of respect as he treated everyone else.

Hamlet had other lifelines. Osric. He was literally paid to keep Hamlet safe and sane. He’d be fine. He’d be fine.

Horatio took a deep breath which was really more of a shallow wheeze and he walked out of the lobby without returning the Bernardo’s greeting. Great, he was still panicking. Horatio hadn’t had a panic attack since he was, what, six years old? Maybe? He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Breathe? Don’t breathe? Would screaming help? He wasn’t supposed to panic, that was Hamlet’s thing. Ophelia's thing. He was Mr. Calm and Level Headed.

“Fuck!” Horatio yelled, causing a passing mother to shoot him an especially nasty look as she covered her kid’s ears.

He could still feel blood on his hands.

For the first time in his life, Horatio skipped a playwriting class, instead opting to sit in the shower for a few hours. Was that gross? Yes. Did he particularly care? Not in the least. He pulled his legs up to his chest and waited for the sheen of invisible blood to wash out with the pollutants of New York.

By the time five rolled around, Horatio had, thankfully, managed to calm himself down enough to make it to the gym. Even in the holds of crisis, after all, he’d never miss a commitment. He threw his phone into the bag without checking it as he pulled on his uniform.

Practice itself passed in a blur. Once given the opportunity, his mind had gratefully switched off all higher functions leaving only the basics of footwork and parries.

He’d just upended another freshman when Laertes’ familiar voice pierced through his focus.

“You did great, Kyle.” Laertes clapped the exhausted looking kid on the shoulder. “Why don’t you let me take over with Horatio for a while?”

Kyle nodded and quickly scampered away.

When Laertes smiled at Horatio, something about his grin was off. “You’re certainly in the zone today.” He said dryly. He slipped his mask over his head as he took up first position.

Horatio really didn’t want to talk but this was Laertes, his sorta friend, so he really should. “I had a bad night.” Horatio admitted as he pointed his foil downwards.

“I heard.” Laertes raised his foil. “With Hamlet?”

“With ghosts.” Horatio corrected as he shifted his feet, searching for the best darting position. He easily dodged as Laertes claimed the first blow.

“Sure.” Laertes agreed. He lunged again, aggressively. Horatio parried, forcing him back. “And without Ophelia.”

Horatio stumbled before regaining himself and blocking Laertes’ next advance. Shit.  Shit,  he’d forgotten that he promised to get in touch with her. She was probably still mad at him. Actually, this was Ophelia, so she had probably convinced herself that Horatio hated her with the passion of a thousand suns. And he’d just slept next to her boyfriend. Slept with his fucking erection pressed against her boyfriend’s ass. The guilt swirling like a silent serpent in his stomach lunged for his heart.

“I was supposed to call her or- or was she supposed to call me?” Horatio misstepped again and Laertes pushed him back, nearly off the mat. “I- Laertes, I am so sorry I forgot. Is she mad? I swear I’ll check in with her just as soon as practice is over.”

“You’re seriously trying to lie to me?” Laertes’ rage turned audible in an instant as he parried every lunge Horatio made with ease. “We know what you did.”

“What did I do?” Horatio asked helplessly. Was Laertes talking about the seance? Leaving Hamlet alone? Oh god, what if Hamlet had already done something stupid? What if he was hurt? What if he’d called Ophelia and told her everything that happened and now Horatio was going to lose both his friends on the same day?

“Are you dumb?” Laertes snarled. “You kissed Hamlet!”

Horatio dove forward, planting his sword firmly into Laertes’ chest. He stared at the tip for a second, trying to process the words before looking up. With the mask on, it was impossible to read Laertes’ face even as Horatio felt the blood draining from his own. “I- I-” What was he supposed to say? How much did Laertes see? How much did he know? Somehow, Horatio was convinced that Laertes knew about every fantasy and stray thought Horatio had ever entertained and even the ones he’d forgotten. “I-”

“Are you trying to break Ophelia’s heart?” Laertes continued on, undeterred. His tone was painfully sharp and loud. “I knew Hamlet would stoop this low but I really thought you were better than this, Horatio. Ophelia was already in my apartment last night bawling her eyes out over the fact that Hamlet is going to break up with her and now you’re going to turn against her too? What kind of friend are you?!”

Horatio felt frozen even as his brain screamed fresh hell. He kept waiting for his instincts to take over; to shock his system and miraculously gift him with ready speech and calm explanations. That was what was supposed to happen. Level-headed and calm. Calm and collected. He was the rational one; the stone in the storm; the anchor on the mayhem that was Ophelia and Hamlet’s lives.

His teammates were staring and Laertes was glowering and for the second time that day, Horatio made the worst choice imaginable as he fled the studio.

The invisible blood was back and he needed another shower.

* * *

Disdain. He’d just told himself the night before that it wasn’t something Horatio would feel for him. It was the reason for all of it: The boundaries, the caution. It was why he was the one Hamlet called when things were wrong, or hurt, or when he felt like he was inches from stepping out in front of a car. But there it was, plain as the pale light of an October morning.

There were things that needed to be done. The morning ritual was abandoned, that was for sure. He put on his bathrobe and some shoes and walked out of the apartment. There were things to be done at a time like this. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, as he couldn’t bear to hold still. He wanted to call Horatio. He had been told not to call Horatio. He’d never been told not to call him. Never in four years, even when it was five in the morning.

“Mr. Kierkegaard-” Bernardo started.

“Speak again and you will be fired,” Hamlet snapped. That certainly shut him up. The Day Watch had significantly less backbone than the Night Watch. He had his credit card and his ID. The only things in the world he needed.

It would be an understatement to say that he got strange looks walking through the Upper East Side in his pajamas and a robe, but like he said. ID. Credit card. The only things in the world that mattered. He strode into the liquor store with all the swagger and poise that his mother beat into his skull between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Two bottles of Grey Goose and one of the most expensive gins in the place would last him...maybe until the weekend? He might not need to last until the weekend. He placed them on the counter. He caught the salesman looking at him with concern and suspicion.

“This is my ID. Here is my credit card. Are you working alone?” He asked firmly, making complete eye contact.

“My co-worker is in the back,” the man said as he organized the sale.

“Excellent. Tell him he’s going to carry these for me. I live about six blocks,” he paused, pointing awkwardly down the boulevard. “That way.”

“Sir, we don’t-”

“For a thousand dollars I’m sure you do,” Hamlet said, voice sharp as the razor in his room. “Now, charge the card and get him so I can go home.”

Money really could solve all your problems. Within five minutes he was well on his way home, complete with the assistance of a very confused sales clerk. He walked exactly four steps in front of him at all times, fidgeting nervously with his card. His foot hurt. That was beside the point. He wouldn’t call Osric for this. Not today.

He made it home and wrote up the check, shoving it into the pocket of the clerk’s shirt before closing the door in his face. Board. He needed the board. He grabbed it from where it lay, setting it up the same way Horatio had last night. He needed to call Horatio. Maybe two hours was enough time. He dialed and it went straight to voicemail.

“Horatio, it’s me,” Hamlet paced as he talked. “Are you done being mad at me?” He asked abruptly. He ended the call.

Again. One more time before he let things escalate. “It’s me again,” Hamlet felt too warm so he shed the robe. “Horatio...I really need you to call me back,” his normally-quick tongue was unusually bad at finding its words. “Please. I don’t know exactly what’s...wrong, but I need you to, you know,” he groaned in frustration. Why? Why was this so hard? “Horatio, I need you.” He hung up. He considered calling Ophelia. She would...likely want to tear him apart. He didn’t know how to talk to her if he didn’t have Horatio to fall back on when it inevitably went wrong.

“Okay, okay,” Hamlet said to himself. “Planchette. Here it is,” he held it, placing it on the board. “Both hands. Yup. I can do this.” He rested his fingers on the board. “Dad,” he said quietly. “Dad, I need help. I- I don’t think my friends are going to care, but,” his voice shook against his will, “I need to know what happened to Horatio last night. Was that...was what he saw what happened?” He waited. The air was thick with anticipation and his mind felt like static.

“Dad, are you there?” He asked after five minutes. No answer. He felt betrayal and loneliness sink into him like a dagger point. “I know you’re here!” He yelled. “I’ve seen you here, in my house!” He sobbed. “Why? Why won’t you come here now?”

What had been different, that night when he’d seen him in the mirror? It was night, first of all. He’d been black out drunk, second. Third, he’d been in danger. He couldn’t do much about daylight, but the other two were manageable.

“Hey, Dad,” Hamlet said cautiously. “One last chance to talk to me the normal way. Are you here?” He waited. Nothing. “Cool. Okay.” He nodded, grabbing the first bottle. “Okay. Yup.” He needed a plan.

He opened the bottle of Xanax, set the razor beside it, got the kitchen knife and put that next to the razor. It was...odd, simulating a crisis. He focused. Panic was easy. All he had to do was stop acting calm, and allow himself to fixate on things. Then, well. Drink. If he couldn’t get a rise out of his father’s ghost by screaming and vomiting, he’d move on. Xanax could put him into a deathly sleep. A stab from the knife would be fatal before it would hurt. The razor, well. That would be for theatrics.

Ophelia hated him. That much was for certain. He had no reason to call. Not yet. He’d let her know before he did anything too permanent. Maybe. He didn’t want her to assume it was to guilt her. A note would be better. He could write a note if it looked like the only way to talk to his dad was to join him. He took a large swallow from the bottle, feeling the burning liquid settle in his empty stomach.

Horatio.  _ That _ was a wave of true pain. He’d told him not to call. Or text. He said he’d call, when he was ready. The look in his eyes; the familiar agony of another person lost. If he’d thought Ophelia was meant to last longer than the rest of undergrad, he’d planned on having Horatio for as much of a lifetime as he would live. It was looking like he’d been off the mark. The only question now was whether it would be by hours or by years. A note would not be sufficient for him. No, he’d need to tell Horatio with his own voice. He drank the vodka like water, feeling his vision swim. He returned to the planchette.

“Dad, look,” he said. “I’m drinking at...noon. And it’s not even brunch!” He laughed hollowly, which turned back into crying. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to drink myself into oblivion for a bit,” he took another sip, “and then I’m going to, uh...escalate. Every hour. Starting with, uh, that.” He pointed at the razor. “Maybe. I might skip ahead to the knife.”

He looked back at the planchette, as if it were his father, taking another swallow and shoving down his fears. “I am going to bleed until, uh. A lot is out. And then I’m going to take, like, a couple of those,” he pointed at the pills, “and then I’ll probably die. And we can talk then, unless I go to hell.” He paused. “I...refuse to believe that you’re in hell.”

He waited. No sign. He got up, walked around a bit. He really, really wanted Horatio or Ophelia to call. Any sign that this was a terrible idea. But the phone stayed dark. He shut off all the lights, pulled the black blinds closed. Now it could conceivably be midnight. He got dressed- it was his most private outfit. A soft hoodie his dad got him on one of their father-son bonding trips to Denmark. It was commoners clothes, but it was unbelievably soft on the inside. It reminded him of his dad. He peeled it off. He wasn’t going to let blood get on it.

He put on one of his best shirts instead. Black silk, chosen by his mother for some ungodly occasion. He didn’t care about this one. It could get shit on it for all he cared. He returned to the board, fingers resting on the planchette.

“Dad? You here yet?” He asked weakly. It was...just past two. He’d been drinking and pacing for two whole hours. And Horatio hadn’t called. No sign of Ophelia, either. It was time for step two. He grabbed his phone. One last try.

“Horatio,” he tried to train the fear out of his voice. “Horatio, I’m about to not be able to call you again. For...a long time, if this doesn’t work.” He grasped desperately for coherent thoughts amidst the drunken chaos. “I still don’t know why you’re mad,” he said quietly, “but I need you to know that what I’m about to do isn’t because of that. I mean, obviously it doesn’t leave me feeling safe or content, but this is about my dad,” he paused for air. “Horatio, I hope you have a good back up for your play,” he said gently. With every minute, the alcohol worked stronger. “I also need you to know that, uh. It wasn’t nothing. Okay? None of it was nothing.” He looked back at the table of sharp and dangerous things. There was absolutely no way this would end well, but he needed to try. He needed to cover all the bases. “Horatio...You’re a complete idiot, and you wear denim on denim at least once a week and I hate it, but,” he took another couple gulps of vodka. “You’re the, uh, most important friend I have. Had. And I’m sorry I ruined it.” He hung up before he could take it back.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Hamlet sat back at the board. “Dad? Anything?” Nothing. “Okay, fine,” Hamlet said bitterly, snatching the razor from the table. One good incision, just to get the blood flowing. He pushed the carpet back so that it was under the bed. Might as well leave a simpler mess for Osric. He steadied the blade over where he assumed his arteries were. One good cut. Deep and quick. No hesitation marks. He took another swallow of Grey Goose, though he could no longer taste it. He stared at the blade for what felt like hours.

He watched the skin part, horrified as the flesh unzipped and revealed the clockwork of his wrist. He could swear he saw a flash of bone before the wound welled over with blood. The pain hit after a second, quick and vicious. “Oh my god. Oh my  god !” Hamlet cried, gasping for air. He let the razor fall; his hands were shaking too badly to hold it. He crawled back over to the board, leaving a horror-flick smear of gore behind him. He’d made a good call putting the carpet away. His pants were soaked by it already and it’d been less than a minute.

“Dad,” he choked out. “Dad, can you hear me yet?” He rested his fingertips on the planchette, trembling as the letters were stained a darker scarlet. He cried as it shuttered towards ‘YES.’

“Dad!” Hamlet said with a joyful sob. “Dad, I miss you so much. Are you okay, wherever you are? Does it hurt? Are- are you warm?” He wept. “Dad, I- I want to see you again. Can I see you?” Hamlet begged. There was no response on the board, but the light in his bathroom flickered. He supposed a normal person would be terrified. He was jubilant.

He got up and hobbled into the bathroom, turning on the lights. He expected to see him in the reflection, but he was alone. “Dad, are you there? Can you, like, show yourself?” Nothing. He returned to the board. “Dad, can you hear me?” Nothing, again. It was 3:30PM. “God, please, no,” Hamlet said to no one in particular. He picked up the razor clumsily in his bloodied hand. Other wrist. He could do that. He could hardly see but he could do that.

The cut was botched, uneven and deeper in one place than in another due to the fact that his grip slipped. It wasn’t bleeding quite as badly as the first one, but that was okay. He doubled over the board desperately. “Dad, I swear to you that we will talk, one way or the other,” he keened. “If I have to die, I will. I don’t have anyone right now,” he laughed, high on blood-loss and vodka. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve managed to get Horatio to hate me too. And we weren’t even dating!” He returned his eyes to the board. “You were wrong. Friends aren’t forever,” he grinned darkly. “Nothing I do matters now that you’re gone. I just killed myself, and the funny thing is that I feel sane.”

His smile faltered at the silence. “Are you here? Are you?!” He shrieked.

All the lights in the apartment turned on, superheating with unnaturally bright light until the bulbs started to shatter. Hamlet stood, startled, swaying on his feet. He ran to the bathroom again, laughing and sobbing as he saw his father’s shadow behind him. “You’re here. You’re here!” He said gleefully. He touched the mirror, as if to touch his father’s face, but felt nothing except the cold glass. He turned, and found the ghost stayed before him. He was unbothered by his father’s bloody chest and hollow eyes as he reached for him. “Take me with you,” Hamlet pleaded. “I- These cuts won’t do it, will they? Wait a moment, I can, uh,” he stumbled out, grabbing the bottle of pills. “These. These will bring us closer, right?” He held them up, but as he turned his dad was gone. “No!” He cried as sharply as Horatio had the night before. “I’ll take them. I’ll take the whole fucking bottle,” he sobbed, returning to the board. He dumped five pills into his hands and swallowed them dry. “I’ll be with-”

He was cut off by the planchette, moving on it’s own. The lights were going nuts again, blowing themselves out and leaving little shadows and puffs of ozone in their place.

S-T-O-P. NO.

“Why? Why should I?” Hamlet cried angrily, brain quickly turning hazy. “I’ve hated living my whole life, and it just got so much worse-”

L-O-V-E Y-O-U. P-L-E-A-S-E.

“How? How can I live?” Hamlet’s cries turned from rage to sorrow.

G-E-T H-E-L-P. A pause. T-H-R-O-W U-P.

“I love you,” Hamlet said miserably. “I love you so much. I don’t want to live without-”

N-O-W. G-O.

Hamlet bolted to the bathroom and shoved his fingers down his throat. Sure enough, clear stomach acid revealed the foaming remains of the five pills. He crawled over to the phone. He dialed Horatio by instinct but left the call before it could go through. Every second counted, and he couldn’t lose them to a voicemail. He dialed Ophelia instead.

“Hamlet, I-” She said angrily.

“Dad says you need to come here. Now,” Hamlet panted. Without the adrenaline, consciousness was hard. “I have maybe...ten minutes of being awake, and I need help. I, uh. Meant to write you a note, but-”

“What the fuck is going on?!” Ophelia cut him off.

“I can’t- I promise this wasn’t about you,” Hamlet felt his mind going numb. “Just. Call Osric. Marcellus. I’m sorry that I-” The words died on his tongue as velvety numbness took over his eyes and sent him into opaquely calm, dark sleep.


	10. Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia calls Horatio. Horatio panics. Hamlet is held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Huge thank you, as always, to everyone who left kudos and comments! We love you.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, discussions of suicide/self-harm, blood.

“Hamlet? Hamlet? What’s going on?” Ophelia whispered into the silence. “Hamlet? Answer your fucking phone right now! ” she shrieked when she didn’t get an answer. “Hamlet?!” More silence. Silence louder than anything Ophelia heard before. She hit the hang-up button and stared into the void for three seconds before the weight of the situation shattered over her head.

What was she supposed to do when her boyfriend died over the phone? She should call an ambulance or his mother or someone or something or anything! Anything! Hamlet said she should call Osric. She had that information somewhere. It look her three times to find his contact in her phone. It rang for ages before Osric answered.

“Hel--”

“Something’s wrong with Hamlet! He was talking to me and then he wasn’t and he said he meant to write a note and then he stopped talking and it wasn’t my fault but it was and I don’t know. I just don’t know!” Ophelia’s message barely even sounded like words.

“Okay, okay. Breathe. Where are you? I’ll come get you,” Osric’s words ran smooth like the rain.

“No, no. Don’t waste your time on me. I’m at Laertes’. Just go to him! Please, Osric!” Ophelia begged.

“I’m a block away. I’m coming to get you,” he insisted. As far as Ophelia could tell. There was nothing in his voice but sea breeze and warmth.

Ophelia stayed on the line until she was sitting in the back of Osric’s car. She meant to talk and tell him what was going on, but her inner monologue was moving so fast. What happened? She didn’t actually know. She had no idea. His father? His father was dead. So very dead. He had asked her to get Marcellus.

Again, it took her way too long to find his contact info before he called him. It went to voicemail. “Hey Marcellus, it’s Ophelia. Something’s happened to Hamlet. Something really bad...I don’t really know what happened. He said I should get you. I don’t know. I just don’t…” she took a deep breath. “I’m with Osric. Meet me at the penthouse? Thanks.”

Ophelia hung up the phone. What else was she supposed to do? Something. There had to be something to do. She couldn't call Gertrude or Claudius or anyone like that. They would beg for questions and she didn’t have answers. She had nothing.

“How much longer?” Ophelia asked. She recognized the neighborhood but she couldn’t remember where it was in relation to anything else. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

“About five minutes,” Osric was even and kept his eyes fast of the road. The car was moving fast, too. Twenty miles above the speed limit in New York fucking City. Perhaps some things revealed how he really felt about the...whatever this was.

Five minutes. Ophelia could keep it together for five minutes. Well, it was more like the five minutes until she got to his apartment and then the rest of her life dealing with knowing that her boyfriend killed himself and it was her fault. Her leg was bouncing. She hadn’t done that since she was in middle school. This was happening. It really was. Why was it happening? Why? Why? Why?

As soon as Osric pulled up to the apartment complex, Ophelia jumped out of the car an took the stairs to Hamlet’s door. She didn’t even stop to say hello to Bernardo or Marcellus or whoever the hell it was working on the desk.

She pounded on the door. “Hamlet! Hamlet! Open the door! Hamlet, please!” A few of the neighbors peered out from behind their doors. For half a second, she considered breaking down the door. She could definitely do it. With all the adrenaline, she wouldn’t even feel the pain. She braced herself against the opposite well.

“Ophelia, stop.” Osric panted. “I have a key.”

The room was straight out of Ophelia’s worst nightmare. Every lightbulb in the house was shattered the air stank of coagulating blood. Osric hauled a giant med kit behind him as he pushed his way into the room. Hamlet was lying half in and out of the bathroom with his phone still pressed against his ear. Ophelia couldn’t hear the sound of herself scream over the roaring of blood in her ears.

A sudden ribbon of cold wrapped itself around her mouth and throat. This was a crisis, an actual crisis and Osric needed someone calm. Ophelia could be calm. She could be calm until she was told that Hamlet was actually dead. Then she could panic and cry and scream.

Ophelia could hear the sound of Hamlet’s blood slowly dripping from his wrists. Both of them. The cuts were so deep. There was something she was supposed to do, something that would stop the bleeding. Pressure.

She grabbed the clean cloths from the kitchen and wrapped them around Hamlet’s wrists. She pressed. She wasn’t sure how much was enough or when she was supposed to stop. She didn’t want to bruise Hamlet’s delicate skin, but they were kind of passed that point now, weren’t they?

Osric attached scary machines to Hamlet’s nose and mouth that whirred when he turned it on. Oxygen maybe? Ophelia didn’t know. She should be able to know, but she didn’t. Hamlet looked so pale, but he wasn’t cold, so he wasn’t dead, right? Right. Ophelia decided he was just sleeping and even Hamlet couldn’t sleep forever. She kept pressing on his wrists. Blotches of blood barely showed up through the black fabric. That was why she was supposed to keep a dark washcloth on her when she babysat. Red blood looked less deadly on a dark background. Maybe that’s why he was wearing a black shirt.

Ophelia didn’t fully grasp that she was kneeling in a puddle of Hamlet’s blood. Logically, she knew. She could feel it in her clothes and against her skin, but it didn’t feel like blood. Blood was warm and flowed from rock-burn during softball practice. Blood is what happened when she wasn’t paying quite enough attention to her sewing and she got the edge of her finger. This wasn’t blood. It was too cool and too sticky to come from the inside of a human, especially Hamlet. It was so dark and messy. He would be ashamed.

Osric opened Hamlet’s mouth and snaked a long tube down his throat. That was the thing that almost broke Ophelia’s resolve. “Why?” she whispered under her breath.

“To remove the rest of the vodka,” Osric explained rationally and methodically. “Thank god he threw up the sleeping pills. I don’t know if it was all of them…” he trailed off and tried to catch Ophelia’s eyes as she stared catatonically into the middle distance. “He’s going to wake up.”

Ophelia kept staring as he worked. There wasn’t anything she could do. The feeling of total helplessness encircled her and her internal monologue drew a blank. She didn’t have fancy degrees or first aid knowledge or anything. She was completely useless and completely in the way and Hamlet’s wrists had stopped bleeding. The blood was beginning the cool on her fingertips. It flaked away as she scratched at it with her nails and felt exactly the same as the blood on her knees and shins.

She brought the rags back to the kitchen and began to wash the blood out of them. The water ran pink through her fingers and it ran pink for a long time before she decided it probably wouldn’t be the safest idea to wash blood in the same place Hamlet cooked. Had cooked. Probably wouldn’t cook again. She left the rags in the bottom of the stainless steel basin and started looking for a broom. She took one look at the expensive Japanese knives and threw them in a grey canvas bag she found stuffed in a cupboard. They were Osric’s problem.

What else could hurt? There was heat from the stove, electricity from the toaster, bleach and cleaning agents under the sink. This entire place was designed to make it as easy as possible for Hamlet to kill himself. Of course, Gertrude bought it for him after his father died, so that was probably the point, right? If he didn’t kill himself then he would starve to death because the only thing he was allowed to eat with calories were almonds. Ophelia fought the intense urge to throw the stupid fucking minimalist vase with no flowers against the wall. What would be one more pile of shards to clean up?

There was glass everywhere and everything was dark becuase there were no more fucking lights. Ophelia swept everything into neat little piles that she could handle once she had proper gloves. Amazingly, an entire apartment full of broken glass and she managed to only cut up her knees when she wasn’t paying attention. She was positive there was glass dust settled between every layer of her skin.

And then there was the blood. Osric cleaned Hamlet up and stitched together his skin. Ophelia could have sworn she heard it over the melodious sound of pieces of glass ringing against each other. After she made sure Hamlet was safely tucked into bed and attached to more oxygen, she dealt with the blood. There was so much blood and it reeked, but none of it got on the carpet, so that was good, she supposed. The only thing other than her that was covered in blood was the ouija board. Why, Hamlet? Why?

The blood didn’t want to come out. Ophelia thought the blood would probably never go away. It had permanently seeped into the woodgrain and into the very veins of the house; the grisly growing thing that fed Hamlet’s mother when she wouldn’t eat.

And then everything was clean, or rather, the facade of clean that Ophelia needed it to be. “I’m going to wash myself,” she said, supposedly to Osric, but she didn’t know exactly where he was or what he was doing, so she said it to the air.

The bathroom was the worst room in the house. Osric placed the razor Hamlet used to slash open his wrists on the edge of the sink. Piping or safety be damned, she flushed it down the toilet with the dissolved remains of the sleeping pills. She turned on the faucet to the tub. Ophelia had intended to just use a washcloth or something to get Hamlet’s blood off her skin, but it was too much and too sticky and she needed to be clean. She needed to be clean right now. She held her phone and let the freezing water run over her legs as she sat in the tub.

The water ran pink and smelled like iron. There were still things she had to do. There had to be something or she had nothing. She couldn’t call her dad or Laertes. They were already pissed at Hamlet and could only make things so much worse. Gertrude and Claudius were out of the question. Hamlet Sr. was shockingly more in the picture than they were. Marcellus had disappeared into the void. Ophelia considered leaving another voicemail, but what was the point. Osric had Hamlet and he was probably dead. Dead or sleeping. There wasn’t much of a difference.

Horatio. She had to call Horatio. Ophelia didn’t think as she dialed his number. If she thought anything at all, she was going to lose it and then Osric would have to save the both of them.

“Ophelia?” Horatio asked as he picked up the phone. “What the hell was your brother--”

“You need to come to Hamlet’s apartment right now,” Ophelia interrupted him. She was shocked that her voice was so calm and comprehensible.

“What? No. I’m not going to… not after…”Horatio trailed away.

“Right. Now.” Ophelia ordered. “He’s hurt and there was vodka and sleeping pills and razors.” That was it, Ophelia started weeping again. “I am covered in his blood,” she shrieked. “Horatio, I am covered in his blood.”

* * *

When Horatio was fifteen, his grandmamma had passed away while he and a few cousins were visiting for dinner. The heart attack hadn’t been a surprise exactly nor was it a true tragedy. Grandmamma was old and had been threatening for years that she was ‘due to kneel over any moment’ but. Well. Death was always a shock no matter how anticipated.

While it was his older cousin who had discovered Grandmamma had passed away, it was ultimately Horatio who had managed the aftermath. He was, after all, the most attuned to crisis in his family and the most calm in the room so it was he who had pulled the cover over Grandmamma’s head, closed off the room, called his mother and aunt to come over, and spent the time between her passing and the adults’ arrival distracting and comforting his crying cousins.

Hamlet wasn’t dead though. So why did this feel the same?

Horatio didn’t stay on the phone with Ophelia after she called. He had the sense that he should have but, really, the last thing Ophelia needed right now was to hear Horatio sobbing and he only had ten minutes to get that out of his system. Seven minutes. More like seven minutes because he ran. The festering panic in his chest was still there, moving in rapid swirls which spiked everytime Horatio listened to Hamlet’s last voicemail because that was something else he needed to get done before he reached Ophelia, too. He needed to convince his brain that the words he was hearing were real, not some figment of his bloodiest nightmares incarnate.

Hamlet hadn’t known. Horatio had been wrong. Hamlet hadn’t understood what was...he had called Horatio his most important friend. Horatio was his most important friend and he’d abandoned Hamlet in cold blood and now he was going to die.

He should never have left. He should never have let his emotions run ahead of him. This is what happened when he let himself be selfish and angry and bitter, this was the ultimate price of his guilt and now he wouldn’t even be able to say sorry. Hamlet probably didn’t even understand how much Horatio loved him. No matter what horrid demons Horatio had scampering around his mind, Hamlet had always been his closest friend. Surely he had to have known? Surely he understood?

Horatio stopped outside of Hamlet’s building and took a moment to let his body decide whether he was heaving because he was out of breath or because he was going to puke or because he’d been sobbing too hard to draw breath. He squeezed his eyes shut tight enough to make red stars dance across the black. Osric had Hamlet. Ophelia needed help. Horatio had his jobs. He forced himself to take a deep breath despite the pain it sent shattering through his lungs. Then he took ten more. Scrubbed salt off his cheeks and neck. Took another breath.

He reached out into the depths of his soul, found the barest shred of composure nestled down deep, and clutched it between bloody fingers.

“Bernardo,” Horatio said in a voice so toneless it scared even him, “can I go up to see Hamlet?”

Bernardo nodded and pressed the button for the elevator. “Is he alright? I’ve gotten some complaints from the neighbors...screaming and such…”

“Well, he’s either dead, dying, or psychologically fucked for the rest of his undoubtedly short life, so...” Too cold. Horatio swallowed back a fresh rise of nausea and clawing guilt. “He’ll be fine. He’s got Ophelia and Osric. I’m going to see them.”

Horatio didn’t bother to knock on the partially-ajar door. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected to see when he entered but his guess was a scene akin to that of a few nights ago, scattered glass and the potent reek of vomit. The penthouse, however, was nearly spotless.

Ophelia. Right.

Horatio stepped cautiously into the center of the room, studying the calm calamity of cleanly broken bulbs and faint rose bloodstains, only to be bent double by a fresh pulse of terror. He grit his teeth and released a hissing breath against the churn of emotions, somehow both immediate and distant, more empathy than urgency. He shoved it away like the shedding of an extra coat.

Hamlet first. Pulling the sheet over the body always came first. He crossed to Hamlet’s bedroom and rapped on the door.

Osric answered, conveniently blocking Horatio’s view of Hamlet as he filled the doorway. “Horatio, did Ophelia call you?”

“Yeah.” Horatio said. “How is he?”

“Stable. For now.” Osric’s tone was calm and even in a way even Horatio could be envious of. “You heard what occurred?”

“Uh, vodka, razors, blood. Lots of blood.” Horatio’s mind flashed to the razor he thought he saw on the edge of the bathtub a few nights ago. The razor blade he definitely saw. He wondered if it was the same one that painted Hamlet’s blond scarlet.

“That’s the summary.” Osric eyed him cautiously. “Do you want details?”

“Yes.” Horatio answered immediately. Details helped to plan. Details helped to assess. He wanted to know how much he’d hurt Hamlet with his vicious cruelty.

“He consumed a great deal of alcohol, slit his wrists, and then attempted to swallow a number of sleeping pills but threw them back up. All the lightbulbs in the apartment are broken and the carpet was moved, apparently to prevent blood from getting on it.” Premeditated. It went unsaid. It was entirely obvious.

Horatio nodded. “Ophelia saw?”

“She did.”

“What was Hamlet doing beforehand?”

For the first time in the conversation, Osric hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure. There was a board in front of him-”

“The ouija board.” Horatio cut him off. He’d been talking to the spirit. To his dad. His murdered dad and Horatio had left him alone to do it. Maybe Hamlet had felt Hamlet Sr.’s death too? That would be enough to do it. Or maybe he’d found out exactly how his dad had died. Who had killed him. Horatio had told him not to call.

“Can I see him?” Horatio asked. Not that he had any right to, considering his hands were painted bright with Hamlet’s sticky blood, intermingling with his father’s in a generational sludge of blame and false promises. Another wretch in his chest, simultaneously his and another’s. “I need to check on Ophelia but I want to make sure he’s alright first.”

Osric nodded and stepped back from the door.

Hamlet looked, well. Dead. That was the only word for it. Absolutely dead. Pale to the point of translucent, bandaged, still with the red blush of blood spread over one cheek and down his exposed arms. He was hooked up to some machine Horatio thought might have been oxygen. Horatio stepped forward into the room as if entering a holy space. A graveyard. He stopped with one hand outstretched. “Can I touch him?” Horatio asked dully.

He wasn’t sure if Osric answered positive or negative. He needed to, though, so Horatio took the final step to the bed and gently smoothed a bit of hair back from Hamlet’s forehead. Hamlet didn’t move but his soft skin still felt warm. Horatio didn’t need to pull the sheet just yet.

“Are you going to take him to a hospital?” He asked, half to Osric, mostly to the sleeping Hamlet.

“Not yet.” Osric said.

“Yeah, okay.” That was good. That was the best laid plan. The last thing Hamlet needed was that bitch of a mother of his to find out about this incident.

Horatio wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with Hamlet and hold him against his chest just as he had the night before. It wouldn’t make a difference now. Hamlet hadn’t known about Horatio’s feelings after all. He hadn’t intended anything. Yet, there was the other part.  _It wasn’t nothing_.  What wasn’t nothing? Horatio didn’t know. He didn’t understand Hamlet. What he did understand, however, was that he should have slept in. He should have just accepted Hamlet would never talk to him and laid in his bed and kept him there indefinitely. Breathed in the lavender and roses in his hair and transformed himself into a shield against the rest of the world and the rest of the universe and the fucking spirit realm too. He should have taken away that razor days ago. He should have done more, said more, been more. He shouldn’t have told him not to call.

“I told you not to do this again.” Horatio whispered. “Why are you so stubborn?”

Hamlet, amazingly, did not respond.

“Where’s Ophelia?” Horatio delicately removed his hand from Hamlet’s hair and stood back. Task two. Ophelia, who had just seen her boyfriend laying in a pool of his own blood. “Bathroom?”

“I believe so.” Osric said.

Horatio crossed over to the dresser and pulled out the extra set of clothes he knew Ophelia kept there before leaving. Osric didn’t ask if Horatio was alright, which he was more than grateful for.

“Ophelia?” Horatio asked as he knocked on the bathroom door. Behind it, he could hear a stream of rushing water, a gutting reminder of Hamlet’s four AM bath bolting through his mind. “It’s, uh. It’s Horatio. Sorry I took so long to get here, I-”

He was cut off as Ophelia tore open the door. She appeared an utter wreck, mused hair and water soaked pants, which, though understandable given the circumstances, was such a disconcerting thing to behold, it almost made Horatio dizzy. Ophelia, not looking incredible? The world must be ending. He held open his arms and let Ophelia dive into them.

“It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He said while rocking her in place. He had the impression he was exuding confidence but he wasn’t sure how. “Osric’s taking care of him and he looks…” Okay? Stable? Alive? All false statements. “He looks like he’ll be fine.”

Ophelia either didn’t hear him or wasn’t interested in hearing him. “There was so much blood.” She said, voice bordering hysterical. “I- I tried to clean it up but I don’t know- Do humans have that much blood? Are they supposed to-”

“You did a good job.” Horatio assured her. “I’m sure Hamlet will appreciate it when he wakes up.” If. When. If when. Osric said he would.

Ophelia shook her head rapidly. “I can’t get the blood out. I keep trying but I can’t make it come out.” Horatio grimaced. She was spiraling. Out of ways to help Hamlet and thus completely lost, he surmised. Maybe he and Ophelia weren’t that different after all.

“Here.” Horatio gently ushered Ophelia back into the bathroom. “I’ve got a change of clothing for you. It’ll probably help you feel better to be in something clean.” He pressed the t-shirt and loose skirt into Ophelia’s hands. “I’ll leave you to get dressed...” He glanced to her for conformation, which she gave without meeting his eyes. “And in the meantime, I’m going to phone your brother and tell him where you’ve gone.” Granted, Laertes still hated him but Horatio just needed to be a messenger in this case. Anyways, Laertes was right to hate him.

“Don’t call him.” Ophelia instructed. “He’s...he and my dad are mad at Hamlet.”

“They’ll be worried.” Horatio insisted.

“Later then.” Ophelia took a hard breath to stave off a sob. “Later.”

Horatio didn’t challenge her. Ophelia knew what was best for herself, after all. That was the difference between her and his little cousins. That’s what made this different. No pulled bedsheets, no screaming toddlers. “Okay.” He repeated. “I’ll be out here.”

While Ophelia changed and maybe showered, Horatio searched the apartment. It didn’t take a great deal of work to uncover the ouija board, painted brightly in blood and gore against a black backdrop. He stole a cloth from the kitchen and wrapped the planchette carefully, avoiding letting it touch his skin as he pocketed it.

By the time Ophelia emerged from the bathroom, Horatio was waiting for her by the couch. She seemed marginally more calm than before but infinitely more miserable, grief, fear, and his eldest companion guilt waring for autonomy in her dark eyes. For a second, Horatio froze. She knew about what he did to Hamlet. She must despise him. She had to. But then Ophelia leaned against his arm and the trance broke.

“Should we sit with him?” Horatio asked.

“I don’t know.” Ophelia said softly. “We don’t want to interrupt Osric.”

If Horatio didn’t see Hamlet, how could he be sure he was still alive? He looked so fragile against white bed sheets. Horatio nodded in agreement regardless. “Okay. We’ll wait out here then.”

That meant they needed distractions, which, Horatio, fortunately, had already planned out. He slipped his jean jacket off his shoulders and held it out to Ophelia. “While we’re here,” he asked with the air of one waiting for a train, “would you mind patching up my coat a bit? I found a few needles and such in Hamlet’s bookshelf, and some thread.”

Ophelia eyed him suspiciously. “You never let me touch your coat.” She said. “You’re always so afraid I’m going to embroider the pockets or something.”

Horatio shrugged. “While we’re here.” He repeated.

Ophelia no doubt knew what he was doing but she didn’t complain, snatching the coat from him immediately and plopping down on the couch. Horatio grimaced as he saw her examining the front pocket. He was going to have so many designs on it by the end of the evening.

For the length of about half an hour, they sat in silence, Ophelia alternating between staring off into some unseen middle distance and stitching his poor coat with a single minded fury, Horatio watching the door.

“Horatio?” Ophelia paused in her work and glanced over to him.

“Yes?”

“What are we going to do if we lose him?”

Horatio clenched his teeth against another swell of sickening fear. He knew the answer. Or, at least, he knew what he’d do. He just didn’t think Ophelia would find his answer very comforting. “I don’t know.” He said instead. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

“-and have a safe flight, Ms. Kierkegaard,” Hamlet heard a sliver of Osric’s voice. A bad sliver. It cut through his mixed state of unconsciousness.

“No!” Hamlet shouted, forcing himself upright. There was something on his face and he tore it off, cringing at the pain the movement sent up his arms. “Do  _ not _ call her!” Oh, sitting up was a bad idea. He felt like he might pass out or puke. He settled back down.

“Sir, I am contract bound to-”

“I swear to god I will jump out in front of a-” he realized that his suicide jokes might not seem like jokes so much. “I will scream.”

“Go ahead,” Osric said easily. There was a fervent knocking at the door. Osric glanced to it. “Shall I let your friends in?”

“Friends?” Hamlet asked. Right. He’d called Ophelia. “Sure.” This would be utterly fantastic, he thought as he shivered. “Why is it so cold in here?” He asked as Osric got up.

“Blood loss, sir,” Osric said calmly. “It will make you feel cold for at least a day.”

“Ugh,” Hamlet groaned. He glanced at the floor. “Where’s my-” he cut himself off as the door opened. Ophelia and Horatio nearly fell over each other to get in. Ophelia had clearly been crying, which made sense, but it looked like Horatio had too. Which was unusual.

“Hamlet,” Horatio breathed his name more than said it. Hamlet suddenly couldn’t look at either of them, so he glanced away. “Can I touch him?” He heard Horatio ask Osric. He had to glance back.

“I can hear you,” Hamlet said stiffly. “I’m not deaf.” He felt a terrible wave of guilt soak him as he saw just how red Horatio and Ophelia’s eyes were. He sighed. “You can touch me, but no outside clothes in the-” he didn’t get to finish the sentence before Horatio climbed into bed beside him, followed quickly by Ophelia. She looked shellshocked and unable to speak, but she was warm and held him gently. On his other side, Horatio looked like it was taking every inch of his willpower not to pull him away from Ophelia. Even if he was wearing outside pants, Hamlet wanted to be near him. He turned on his side so Ophelia was spooning him, resting his head on Horatio’s stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Horatio said miserably as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m so sorry,” his voice caught awkwardly in his throat. “I-I should have answered. I shouldn’t have left-”

“Shut up,” Hamlet said quickly, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar shift in Horatio’s temperament. He gingerly found one of his hands and held it as tight as he could, which wasn’t tight at all given the condition of his wrists. “This wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t about you.”

“But-” Horatio started.

“Why?” Ophelia cut him off. “Why would you do this? You could have called me…” Hamlet grimaced as she started crying.

“It wasn’t about you either,” Hamlet groaned. “Did neither of you listen to my phone calls? This was about Dad.”

“Hamlet-” Ophelia say with too much sympathy.

“No,” Hamlet cut Ophelia off. “This wasn’t that kind of suicide attempt,” he said quickly. “I needed to. I needed to talk to him.”

“There isn’t more than one kind,” Horatio said quietly, sinking lower onto the bed. Hamlet shifted so he head was on his chest. His heart was going at a breakneck pace.

“There is,” Hamlet said, suddenly compelled to be more gentle. “I can only talk to him when I’m in danger,” he said softly.

“Hamlet, no,” Ophelia said skeptically. “He can’t talk to you, he’s…”

“He can!” Hamlet lifted his head and glared over his shoulder. He regretted his tone as he saw how sad she looked. “He can. Horatio, tell her he can,” he settled back against him, desperate for his body heat.

“We, uh...had an encounter,” Horatio said weakly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It was pretty intense. I’ll tell you more later.”

“Um, okay?” Ophelia said nervously, holding him tighter. Hamlet wanted sleep. He needed sleep.

“Horatio, take off your disgusting outside clothes and get under the covers,” Hamlet tried to sound commanding, but he just felt small and exhausted.

“I don’t-” Horatio stiffened.

“Don’t fight with me,” Hamlet said with a sigh. “Just do it. Ophelia did it.”

“Ophelia has clothes here,” Horatio argued.

“Then keep clothes here!” Hamlet said the words and tried not to flinch at their intimacy. At the very least, Horatio got out of bed. Hamlet could hear him changing.

“Do you own anything that might fit me?” Horatio asked sheepishly.

“No.” Hamlet said.

“Does it matter?” Ophelia said with just a hint of frustration. “Boxers are basically shorts. Just wear your t-shirt.” Hamlet pulled her arms just a little tighter around him. He was very, very cold now that he wasn’t sandwiched between two people. Luckily it only took Horatio a couple seconds to take of his jeans, and the second he was under the covers Hamlet curled into him.

If they fell asleep around eight, Hamlet must have woken up in the early hours of the morning. He realized he couldn’t move, which distressed him until he saw it was just because Ophelia had her head on his chest. He ran his fingers through her curls languidly. He felt awful. Physically and emotionally. It was made infinitely worse by the desperation with which Horatio held onto him, even in his sleep. He would have reached out and run a finger over the tightness in his brow, but Horatio had it locked in an unbreakable grip. It actually kind of hurt.

It was nice having both of them so close. Really nice, except that he was acutely aware of how good the chances were that things would go to hell the minute the shock wore off. Ophelia’s response to stress was always anger eventually, and he doubted that he’d be able to convince her that this wasn’t an elaborate means of making her feel guilty. He’d have better luck with Horatio, if for no reason other than that he believed him about the ghost thing.

He almost jumped when Horatio flinched awake, chest heaving. Was he crying? He sounded like he was crying. “Horatio?” Hamlet whispered, taking care not to wake Ophelia.

“Hamlet,” Horatio breathed desperately. “Is-Is it okay if I come closer?”

“Yes,” Hamlet said, surprised by his own gentleness. Horatio pressed himself against his side, burying his face in his hair. It was very unlike him, but not as unlike him as the crying was. Hamlet could feel the damp warmth of his tears against his skin. The salt was bad for it, but he found he didn’t particularly care.

He maneuvered his arm carefully, letting Horatio settle against him before carefully resting his hand on the back of his head. It was deeply annoying to have the thick bandages around his wrists, and the pain was odd. It didn’t hurt badly, but differently. He hated that he could feel his severed flesh sticking to itself and straining as his skin stretched with each movement. It was a deeply unsettling sensory experience. He held Horatio, and that helped. He was heavy and warm and familiar, though they’d never been this close. He could feel Horatio’s cheek against his own, and he leaned his head lightly against him.

“I got your voicemail,” Horatio said against his ear. A mix of trepidation and longing settled in his chest. He’d nearly forgotten he’d actually sent an important one.

“Okay,” Hamlet whispered. He was very much aware that Ophelia was less than a foot from him and could wake at any time.

“Can we talk about it?” Hamlet blushed as he felt Horatio’s lips brush brush against his cheek as he spoke.

“Not here,” Hamlet said, the weight of Ophelia’s head against his chest suddenly very heavy. “Later,” he added.

“Okay,” Horatio finally took a deep breath, relaxing a bit.

“Do you know when Mother is due to arrive?” Hamlet asked, closing his eyes and sinking his weight into Horatio as best he could.

“Tomorrow. Late morning or early afternoon, I think,” Horatio said quietly, a little clearer now that they weren’t speaking of taboo things.

“Great,” Hamlet sighed sarcastically. Something unhealthy and dark shook in his stomach. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral. If she brought Claudius with her...he wouldn’t be sure how to cope. Something about her simultaneously filled him with bloody rage and complete and utter fear. “You’ll stay with me, while she’s here?” He asked weakly, uncomfortable at the genuine pleading in his tone.

“Yes,” Horatio said eagerly, tightening his grip. “Always. I’m not leaving again,” he said desperately as he nuzzled against his hair. Hamlet could swear he felt Horatio kiss his temple, but it may have been wishful thinking.


	11. Life Moves On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia goes to dinner. Horatio avoids adults. Hamlet talks to his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! We hope you're enjoying our story! We always love hearing what you have to say!!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: mentions of trauma, parental issues, and body image issues

Ophelia was woken up by the ringing of her phone. She almost just let it go, too, but she felt Hamlet startle underneath her head. Laertes. Of course it was Laertes. As far as he was concerned, she disappeared into the night and didn’t leave so much as a text message. Actually, that’s exactly what happened, who was she kidding.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” she murmured as she kissed Hamlet’s cheek. He felt cold, even under her lips.

“What the fuck?!” Laertes asked.

“Listen, it was important--” Ophelia tried to say.

“Was it Hamlet? I bet it was fucking Hamlet,” his voice melted from rage to deep seated worry. “Please Ophelia, you can’t just keep going back to him because he does something sweet. He’s just going to do it over and over and over--”

Ophelia checked to make sure the door was closed and he dropped her voice to a whisper. “He slit his wrists, okay? That’s why I went back to him.”

“Ophelia...I don’t...why?” Laertes whispered even though he was presumably at home, alone.

“To talk to his dead father’s ghost.”

“What?” He asked. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know, okay? And this is just...It makes sense to Horatio, I guess.” Ophelia sat on the edge of the tub again.

“I thought you said they didn’t believe in ghosts?” Ophelia could hear her brother pacing on the other line.

“They don’t! Or they do! I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. I just want things to make sense,” Ophelia sighed as she ran her hand down her face.

“What are you going to do about--”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know, okay?” Ophelia snapped. That’s how she knew it was bad. She never snapped at her brother. Ever. She softened her voice. “It’s not like I can talk about it with him now. It’ll send him over the fucking edge again. I can’t...It’s already...I just can’t do that.” 

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Laertes sighed. “That’s probably for the best right now. Okay. At least let Dad keeps some tabs for you. You know, in case…”

“Yeah. I know.” Ophelia said sharply. “It’s not like I can stop him anyway.” Ophelia loved her father. She loved her father dearly, but he was not exactly one to honor any sort of personal space or privacy. She glanced at her watch. 10:32am. She would definitely be late for her class, not like it mattered. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ll call you when things settle down. I promised Dad I’d come home this weekend.”

“Sounds good. Take care of yourself, Ophie,” Laertes said.

“I always do,” she answered and hung up before her brother could protest.

It was painfully quiet now without the sound of Laertes’ voice. Osric was moving somewhere in the kitchen preparing breakfast, probably being somewhat inconvenienced at the lack of proper knives. Hamlet and Horatio were talking, but she couldn’t make out any words. Ophelia was alone in the bathroom. She almost couldn’t tell that is was a scene from a horror novel even though she still looked like one. She took a brush from Hamlet’s drawer and did her hair and tried to fix her clothes. There was simply no salvaging her aching eyes or dead complexion. She had as much control as she was able, but not an inch more.

And she really did have to go to class. As much as it pained her to leave Hamlet’s side, he had Horatio for today. That was enough. More than enough. Ophelia shook her head to clear the thought. She was allowed to trust them, or rather, she was making the decision to. Everything else was a problem she could deal with later. They were happy together, happier than she and Hamlet ever were. It would be a mercy if she just--

No. Ophelia couldn’t do that to Hamlet or Horatio right now. They needed all the help they could get. She was making the decision. She steeled herself as she walked into the bedroom. Hamlet and Horatio were close, but they were always close. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, Ophelia wasn’t jealous. Truly. If it would be better for them all, then it would be better, but it was something for her to deal with when she didn’t feel like she was about to collapse.

“Hamlet,” she said “I need to go to class. Is there anything you need before I go?” She closed her eyes to avoid seeing the pain or fear or something bad that would spread across his face. She wasn’t supposed to leave him again, and yet, here she was.

“A glass of water please?” Hamlet asked. Ophelia opened her eyes and saw the smallest smile.

“Oh yeah, ummm, sure. I can do that.” She gave him a a soft kiss on the cheek.

She managed to make it to the kitchen and back without having to have a conversation with Osric or anyone else. She was pretty sure that Marcellus had been by, but she wasn’t quite sure why. The only thing out of place was the fine, white and blue china that was polished and sitting on the kitchen counter. For his mother. Great. The last thing Hamlet needed was to be visited by that fucking fury when he was already upset. She had a backup plan, but that meant that she needed to talk to Osric.

“So, his mother’s coming tonight.” Ophelia made it very clear that it wasn’t a question.

“She is indeed,” Osric confirmed.

“Can you tell her that I’m going to take her out to dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, and where do you plan on taking Mrs. Kierkegaard? Her tastes are not easily covered with a college student’s income.” He was clearly amused by her proposition.

“Per Se.”

“ Ms. Cortez, pardon me for asking, but has a relative died? If so, I sorely express my condolences.”

“Oh no, I have other ways of getting the money,” she shrugged.

“The mafia? Because that may be a lucrative business, Ms. Cortez, but the consequences will catch up to you in the long run.” Osric could no longer keep a straight face. “I should know,” he smiled.

“Something even more dangerous.” Ophelia smiled too.

“Well, if it means swindling Hamlet’s, and I’m quoting you here, ‘heinous birth of a mother’ then I suppose it can’t be that terrible.”

“Thanks Osric,” Ophelia said. “Remind her that it’s an order, not a request, and I’ll take her through the subway.”

“Ophelia, she will most certainly die,” Osric laughed.

“That is the plan. I’ll drop by before dinner to get her.” Ophelia paused for a moment. “Please make sure Hamlet’s alright.”

“I always do,” he said and with that, Ophelia went to class.

Even thought the structural physics of Greek and Roman women’s hairstyles should have been fascinating, Ophelia found it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than Hamlet, Horatio, or the rehearsal that evening. Even though Hamlet would only miss a rehearsal or two, it felt like everything was being flung off kilter. Well, more off kilter than it already was. Ophelia doodled absentmindedly in the margines of her notebook. It was so very difficult to care about the length of hairpins when her two best friends, he two only friends if she was being honest, were suffering. In the very least, she didn’t have an absence on today’s attendance sheet an sometimes that was enough.

“Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” Ophelia asked Horatio as he inspected what she had for costumes.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. We talked a bit,” he glanced at her nervously. “Listen Ophelia, your brother--”

“I’m not dealing with that right now. Eventually I will, but Hamlet needs to get his feet on the ground or something more than this. I don’t want to...you know.”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry,” He tried to say. “It’s been so much and I didn’t mean it.”

“I said I’m not dealing with it,” Ophelia snapped. She hated snapping at people, but she was so tired. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you, really.”

“Then are you mad at him?”

“Not mad at Hamlet either. It’s just...something that needs to be dealt with eventually,” Ophelia sighed.

“Yeah, eventually…” Horatio trailed away. “Have you heard about Gertrude?”

“Only in that she’s coming.” Ophelia scrunched her nose as she gave him the sketch for Imogen’s dress. “I’m forcing her to take me to Per Se to get her off Hamlet’s back for a couple hours.”

“Oh he’s just going to love that,” Horatio said sarcastically.

“Better than having her with him. I should send him a warning text, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably. Better than springing anything on him at this point,” he said.

Ophelia took out her phone and began typing.

_Hey Hamlet_. _Heard your mother was coming tonight. I’m so sorry. I’m taking her out to dinner to get her off your back for a few hours. I hope it helps a little bit._

Hopefully it helped. Maybe she would even be able to coerce Gertrude into eating something with a single goddamned calorie in it. Who was Ophelia kidding? She would go into cardiac arrest if she had even one gram of salt or sugar. And to force that on her son too? Barbaric.

“So, about what happened,” Ophelia started. “He was trying to contact his dead father...the ghost. And you think that makes sense? Our Hamlet? Really?”

“It’s real, okay. I felt it. You’ve just got to believe me. It was terrible. I can’t...I won’t...just no, Ophelia.” Horatio looked nervous bordering on panicked.

“I haven’t even asked you anything yet,” she said.

“No, but you’re going to. I can tell,” Horatio shivered. Whatever it was, and Ophelia was sure it wasn’t a ghost, really did freak him out.

“Well, I find it hard to believe. I really did just think you were fucking with him to first time.”

“Why does everyone assume I’m that cruel?” he asked.

“I don’t! It’s just a whole hell of a lot easier to wrap my head around than the idea that there are spirits that walk the earth that want to kill my friend.” Horatio gave her a look. “Boyfriend. Thing. Whatever.” 

“He doesn’t want to kill him. I think he was murdered.” He shivered again.

“Come on, Horatio. People don’t murder people like Hamlet’s dad. I don’t think he was capable of making one enemy in his entire life.”

“Then how did he die, Ophelia?” Horatio asked, his eyes darting back and forth. “Surely it’s in an obituary or something. Someone has to know how he died. So tell me.”

Ophelia thought for a moment. She had to know. Hamlet had to have told her. It must have been something that he cried about because his dad was far too young and it was tragic. It couldn’t just have been something normal, but murder? Never murder. Not Hamlet’s dad. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“It was murder, Ophelia. I promise it was murder.” Horatio begged her. He truly begged. Even though she knew, Ophelia didn’t really take the hint.

“Then show me!” Ophelia commanded. “It’ll help. Either it’s real and we can ease the pressure or its not and we can work towards getting Hamlet to cope too.”

“No, no. I can’t! Don’t make me! Please, Ophelia! It hurt so much! I was so scared! Please!” Horatio looked like he was about to cry or he was crying and Ophelia couldn’t tell because her resolve broke at seeing Horatio really panic.

Horatio never panicked. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she moved to hug her friend, but he pushed her away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was really that bad. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” She was running out of things to say. She didn’t have a clue what was going through Horatio’s head. “Just think about it. We don’t have to do anything if you’re really that scared. I just thought it would help. That’s all.”

There was knocking on the door.

“I’ll think about it,” Horatio answered before he righted himself and tried to look presentable.

“Uhh, come in?” Ophelia didn’t mean to make it sound like a question.

Fortinbras stuck her head around the door. “Hey, is it a bad time? I can come back later if you want, but it kinda has to be today.”

Ophelia gave a quick glance to Horatio who nodded his head. “Yeah, now’s good. What’s up?”

Fortinbras walked into the room. She was wearing a pair of leggings and a cut off t-shirt. With her bare feet, she was only an inch or two taller than Ophelia in her heels. “I need to be measured for my uniform,” she explained with open arms. “I was supposed to come by last practice, but the door was closed and it sounded like an important conversation.”

Ophelia blused. “Yeah, yeah. That’s no problem. Sorry you had to wait and...uh...hear that.” She watched as Horatio snuck out of her costume shop. She heard her father stop him in the hallway, so she turned her complete attention to Fortinbras.

“It’s no problem, man,” Fortinbras said with the flick of her strikingly elegant wrist. “Things happen. What do you need me to do?”

“Oh, uh, just stand there. I’ll measure...basically everything and then you’ll be free to go. Quick and painless,” Ophelia did her best to explain as she unraveled her measuring tape. She kept blushing as shr thought about how close she was going to be to Fortinbrs in about five seconds. She smelled like grass and an appropriate amount of Axe body spray.

“So,” Ophelia asked as she wrapped her tape measure around Fortinbras’ exceptionally well defined bicep. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around very much. What brings you to theater?”

“I lost a bet,” Fortinbras said sheepishly. “I bet that one of our rookies would break a Harvard bitch’s nose during our last game and I, unfortunately, was wrong.”

“Oh?” Ophelia asked. She wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that.

“Don’t worry, she would have deserved it. And what about you? What brings you to theater?” she asked.

“I do costume design at Parsons down the road. My dad runs the costume shop here and I’m really good friends with Hamlet and Horatio, so here and I am for their capstone.” Ophelia moved to measuring her hight.

“So you have your own project back at school, right? What’s it about?”

“What?” No one had ever really been interested in Ophelia’s non-friend related projects.

“You’re project? I’m sure you have one if you’re doing all this alone.” She gestured to the utter chaos of the room around her.

“Oh, well, not completely alone. I have quite a bit of help.” Ophelia blushed. Why couldn’t she stop blushing? “I’m doing costumes for my own production of Antigone. I do a lot of historically informed stuff, so I’m using materials and techniques that would have been available at the time to do everything.”

“Woah. that’s totally wicked!” Fortinbras beamed. “And it sounds really hard.”

“Yeah,” Ophelia laughed despite herself as she wrapped her arms around Fortinbras’ waist. “The designs were a little difficult because I didn’t want it to just be like...white togas, you know? I’ve got such nice colors to work with and I’ve learned a little metal smithing for the masks and jewelry.” No one had ever really cared before. It was just her little thing at a little school compared to Juilliard, after all.

“Metal smithing?” Fortinbras asked, a goofy grin spread across her face. “Can you make a dagger?”

“A dagger?” Ophelia mused. “I don’t see why not. Actually, I probably should. I’m sure it’s nothing a little practice won’t help.”

“Totally give me a message when you do.” Fortinbras hastily scribbled her number on a piece of scrap paper. “And you know, other things too. I can’t do much, but I can play rugby pretty good.”

“When do you have games?” Ophelia asked.

“Usually Fridays or Saturdays depending.”

“Give me a text when you have a good one?” she asked and she gave Fortinbras her number.

“Will do!” Fortinbras smiled like the sun. Ophelia blushed. Again. “Any clue what you’ll have in store for me?”

“This is a rough sketch,” Ophelia said as she handed her the drawing. It was...something at the moment. She still wasn’t quite happy with it, but she could work with Fortinbras to figure something out.

“I do have to wear a dress don’t I?” she murmured.

“Afraid so,” Ophelia shrugged apologetically. She didn’t know enough about the character to decide if she was supposed to wear the classic 20s pop type look, or the elegant ball gown look.“Probably heels too.”

“Shit,” Fortinbras said before covering her mouth. “I dodn’t mean to swear. I’ve just...never really got that hang of walking in them. Plus it hurts.”

“I can help you out, it’s no big deal.” Ophelia smiled. “I’ve got it down to a science.” She did a little half twirl, promptly slammed her knee into the side of her table and tripped. “Well, usually.” That was utterly humiliating. Fortinbras laughed and she sounded like fairy bells. It hurt something deep in Ophelia’s stomach.

Someone was calling from the stage. “I’ve gotta run!” Fortinbras said with a small wave. “I’ll see you soon sometime, yeah?”

“Yeah, see you soon.” Ophelia said softly as the door closed. Now there was nothing left to do but wait for her decadent meal with an absolute ghoul. Good thing Ophelia didn’t believe in ghosts.

Ophelia changed into her nice I’m-a-talented-seamstress-who-looks-like-the-über-rich dress and took a taxi to Per Se. Osric had kindly informed her while she was working that Gertrude- what was Ophelia thinking- Ms. Kierkegaard would like to take a private car to the restaurant. Typical rich bitch.

Per Se didn’t look as fancy as the Ritz, but inside, Ophelia knew thousand dollar plates of food and ten thousand dollar bottles of wine were waiting for her. It was easy to spot Gertrude Kierkegaard. Pure white dress, pure white hair, looked like she sucked the blood out of the entire waitstaff. Easy.

Now, Ophelia was interested in making this night last as long as physically possible. So, she mostly talked of absolutely nothing while looking sickeningly charming. Gertrude was so not interested, but then again, neither was Ophelia. Osric was right, heinous bitch was a pretty good phrase to describe her.

After spending half an hour describing her capstone project over a plate of steak, Ophelia called the waiter to ask for desert.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, dear?” Gertrude said through gritted teeth.

“No, not really.” Ophelia gave her the most wicked smile she could muster. Small comments made all evening were nothing new. How horrible must it be to think her self worth was intrinsically tied to her appearance. Tragic.

“I’ll take the chocolate cake with the mousse and vanilla ice cream please,” Ophelia said sweetly.

“I’ll have the fruit, but no chocolate, creme, or sugar,” she insisted. No wonder Hamlet was neurotic about food. It wasn’t working for Gertrude either. No amount of dieting or plastic surgery could make her eyes any less soulless.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do after college?” Gertrude asked politely.

“I’m going to try to get a job with a major magazine or theater company. I haven’t decided yet. I’ve had a couple people show interest in me, so I’m not overly worried,” Ophelia answered with an easy smile. It was true, she was practically the best up and coming costume designer on this continent, but that probably didn’t hold a candle to Gertrude’s Parisian tastes.

“Oh, do you have a portfolio website?” Gertrude asked with genuine interest. That was scary.

“I do, would you like me to email you the link?” she asked.

“No, no, I think I’ll look right now, _darling_,” she spat with all the vitriol of a dying viper. So, that’s what this was: an attempt to embarrass Ophelia in front of Gertrude’s high society type people. Nice fucking try.

“I do believe you’ll be impressed,” Ophelia smiled. “Most people are. I’m quite spectacular.”

“And you have a very level headed sense of your own worth,” Gertrude said.

“Being humble hasn’t exactly done me any favors. In any case, I know exactly what makes my life worthwhile.” It was kinda an obvious jab, but Gertrude seemed to let her get away with it.

It was also obvious that Gertrude would never have Hamlet’s skill as an actor, judging on her facial expressions while she looked through Ophelia’s portfolio. Her eyes lit up at a particular ensemble she knew everyone loved.

“It’s my design of a traditional Rarámuri dress my mother made for me when I was a child.” When Gertrude gave her a questioning look, she continued. “They are my mother’s people and she was very proud of her heritage.”

“And how is your mother doing now?” Gerturde asked, possible deliberately steering the conversation to something that could upset Ophelia. Maybe she was just that dense.

“She’s dead.” Silence; deep, permetating, and oh so uncomfortable.

“Well,” Gertrude said awkwardly. “I could certainly see you working at Elsinore. We’re always looking for devoted new designers. I should hope to see you apply. I’m sure my Hamlet would as well. It was his father’s magazine, after all. He would want it to flourish with talent such as yours.”

Ophelia could still hear the faint trace of loathing in her voice, but who cared? An invitation to work at Elsinore, no matter how coerced, was an invitation none the less. There was comfortable silence for Ophelia until the waiter brought dessert. Her chocolate cake looked and tasted like heaven incarnate. Every decadent bite was a dream. The cake itself probably cost more that her and Laertes’ car. From the corner of her eye, Ophelia spotted three swirls of whipped cream on the edge of Gertrude’s fruit dish.

“What is this?” Gertrude asked the waiter sweetly. “I do believe I asked for no chocolate, cream, or sugar.” There was a moment of tense silence. “Well, what is that?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Kierkegaard, I’ll the issue remedied immediately.”

“Are you deaf? It was a simple instruction. Does it look like I eat cream to you?” Her voice had pitched to a light yell. “You are a disgrace to this restaurant. I hould have you fired for your gross incompetence.” 

The waiter looked like he was on the verge of tears so Ophelia had to step in. “_Darling_, just eat around the cream. It’s not even touching anything. I’m sure you can cope.”

“I most certainly can not,” Gertrude huffed.

“You most certainly can.”

After another ten minutes of convincing, Gertrude capitulated and the waiter probably ran to quit his job and work somewhere less filled with billionaire psychopomps. Gertrude paid without Ophelia even prompting. She was going to leave it at that, but as Gertude was walking back towards her driver, she caught sight of the check.

No tip. None at all. Over strawberries and cream. Ophelia didn’t have much cash on her, certainly not enough for the 30% tip their poor waiter deserved. Instead, she left $100 and a note. It wasn’t enough, but it was the best she could do.

* * *

The panic passed. Even though Horatio had known it would, it was still a surprise to wake up and find the coil of sparking wires within his chest extinguished. And it was even more surprising to find that neither he nor Hamlet had shifted apart throughout the night. Or, well, perhaps that wasn’t so shocking. Hamlet turned extraordinary tacktile when upset, something Horatio had observed from his own interactions with him as well as from Ophelia.

Horatio made a conscious effort not to flinch as Ophelia’s phone rang, fully aware of how incriminating his position was, lying basically wrapped around Hamlet with his face buried into his soft hair, but too worn out to make a true fuss about it. Ophelia knew. Knew how Horatio really felt about Hamlet as if it hadn’t been obvious all along. He’d have to talk to her later. It was imperative that he talked to her about it. For now, though, he listened to her answer her phone and quickly leave the room while continuing to feign sleep. If he ‘woke up,’ after all, he’d have to take responsibility for hugging Hamlet tighter when the other had flinched.

“I know you’re awake.” Hamlet said a few seconds after the door closed.

Horatio sighed and began to untangle himself from Hamlet only to pause as Hamlet stiffened. Horatio stopped moving and resettled against Hamlet. He internally debated what was the most acceptable amount of skin-to-skin contact was before his common sense kicked in and he leaned his cheek against Hamlet’s head again. He stared at Hamlet’s thickly bandaged wrists tiredly. “How are you…” he began but trailed off. That was quite possibly the dumbest question he could possibly ask someone who had just tried to commit sucide. “Do you need anything?” He asked instead.

“No, I’m fine.” Hamlet said, without meeting his eyes. From his current angle, Horatio couldn’t guess where what he was thinking about at all. Yet, a slight air of discomfort lingered around him.

“Later.” Horatio repeated Hamlet’s assurance from last night. Of course, he desperately wanted to talk _now, _if only to assure himself that something happening and he wasn’t just creating figments, but...bigger issues and all that.

“What did you see?” Horatio asked at the exact moment Hamlet asked, “Are you mad at me?”

There was a beat of heavy silence. Neither of them had to specify what was really being asked.

“I’m not mad...per se.” Horatio finally offered. Guilt dripped heavy on his vocal cords, thick as honey. “I’m, uh...well I’m still so sorry for not answering your voicemails…”

“And I already said it wasn’t about that.” Horatio interjected. His voice was sharp in a way which meant wariness.

“Yeah.” Horatio took the fresh burst of dread and stowed it. “I wish you would have at least waited for someone else to be here. Maybe taken a less extreme stance on things. Not using a razor would have been good, for starts.” No matter what Hamlet said, Horatio still couldn’t believe this was entirely ghost-driven, which made the events of last night all the harder to swallow. Not quite a sucide attempt, not quite a clearly executed plan. Just a weird, messy middle ground that Horatio was positive he couldn’t address without a master’s degree in supernatural psychology. The only thing he knew how to do was write, fence, and perfectly quote sad Gilded Age authors while wasted.

Hamlet didn’t answer, biting his lip in what was either consideration or guilt. “I saw my dad.” He said quickly to cover the pause. “Standing behind me in the mirror and then right in front of me. Bloody and with hollow eyes. He, uh...he talked to me through the board too.”

Horatio swallowed and began to stroke Hamlet’s arm softly. “Oh?” He asked, trying without success to keep his voice light. “What did he say?”

“Not much.” Hamlet said almost bitterly. “He...well, he just, you know…” Horatio didn’t take the bait to pass over the missing piece. “Told me to stop.”

Horatio closed his eyes as a burst of relief washed over him. Hamlet hadn’t been subject to the same treatment as Horatio then. That was good. That was really good. Even better, the spirit had, apparently, helped Hamlet. Saved him, even. Unsure if Hamlet Sr. was still hanging around the apartment, Horatio sent him a silent thank you and hoped he wasn’t being completely played by some extra crafty demonic entity.

“That’s good. That you stopped.” Horatio said awkwardly. “But that still doesn’t really explain why you decided to slit your wrists.”

“I told you, I only see him when I’m in danger.” Hamlet said. “Almost bleeding out is danger.”

“It is.” Horatio agreed. “Also unnecessary. Completely idiotic, honestly.”

“Well, how else was I supposed to do it?” Hamlet snapped. He sat up in bed to stare down Horatio only to lean back against the pillow as the lack of blood made him woozy. Horatio scooted back from him but was stopped by Hamlet’s hand. “I…” Hamlet released his hand, regifting Horatio with the ability to think. Whatever bond of physical contact they’d established in crisis appeared to have been broken, at least for now. Horatio tried not to be too disappointed. Hamlet cleared his throat. “It was necessary. Besides, now I know for sure I can do it.”

“Do what?”

“See him. Contact him. I know for sure he’s there or here or whatever.” Hamlet looked to him expectantly. “You still believe me?” He asked, more a challenge than a question.

“I do.” Horatio replied firmly. “But we need to figure out a different way for you to contact your dad besides...this.”

“Are you volunteering?” Hamlet asked. It sounded like a weak attempt at a joke but fell flat on Horatio’s rocketing heart rate.

“No.” He said coldly. Then he glanced to Hamlet’s fearful face and his brief resolve cracked. “I mean...yes. Yes, of course I’ll help. Just...not with the board. I can’t be around...I can’t do that. At least not for a little while.” It was yet another spill of panic which set the coils in his chest sparking once more. So much for that reprieve. Horatio brought his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly.

“Not with the board.” Hamlet nodded, voice softening.

“And not with razors.” Horatio added.

“...Yeah. No razors.” Hamlet said. Horatio knew the hesitation meant that he was considering other ways to accomplish his ends and had found suitable alternatives. He didn’t have the energy to argue, however, and thus added a new layer of fear to add to his ever growing pile. Hamlet had asked him to stay for the day, he reminded himself. At least nothing bad could happen today.

When Ophelia rentered the bedroom, Horatio was thankfully still sitting halfway across the bed. Not that it really mattered but at least Horatio didn’t have to see assumptions and truths blazing in her eyes. He grimaced as she kissed Hamlet on the cheek and he smiled back with obvious affection. As soon as Ophelia left for class, Horatio leaned forward and pulled Hamlet into a tight hug, which the other returned willingly. Horatio barely resisted the urge to melt back into it, drag Hamlet down into the soft bed sheets with him and stay there indefinitely. Hamlet was so warm in his arms and as Horatio ran a thumb across the back of his neck, his hair was feathery soft. He was soft. Horatio gave himself exactly five seconds to be a selfish bastard and to overanalyze exactly how sweetly Hamlet settled against him before pulling away.

“I’m going to go check on Osric. Find out exactly when your mother arrives.” Horatio said as he clambered out of bed and pulled his pants back on.

“Okay.” Hamlet sounded disappointed. Most likely because of his mother’s imminent descent on the household. Maybe because of the other thing.

The next few hours passed in relative normality. Or, at least, as normally as it could. Osric stayed in the apartment, cleaning, cooking, and occasionally passing bits of conversation with Horatio or Hamlet. Horatio tried to help him at first before realizing that he didn’t know what items needed to be cleaned and that he absolutely didn’t know how to cook proper meals without using olive oil and butter. Nobody in their right mind should think that unsalted steak and a plain salad made a meal. Horatio could practically feel the weight of his mother’s disapproval hanging over the spotless kitchen.

Eventually he deligated himself to staying by Hamlet’s side as the other recuperated for his mother’s appearance. It didn’t escape Horatio’s notice that Hamlet had selected one of his nicest shirts to wear for the day, though the effortless silky material clashed weirdly with the huge bags under his eyes and the disorder of his hair. Couldn’t hold a hair brush with two weak wrists, after all. When Hamlet accepted Horatio’s offer to brush his hair for him, Horatio knew they were entering sudden death.

The knock on the door at precisely 3:00PM seemed to shoot rickashays of nervousness throughout the whole penthouse and Horatio suddenly found himself holding Hamlet’s hand again, unsure who had reached for who first. As Osric crossed to the door, Horatio glanced to Hamlet’s pale face.

“I’m asleep.” Hamlet announced. He stood from the couch. “I’m asleep.” He repeated more forcefully to Horatio.

“You’re asleep.” Horatio nodded.

Hamlet raced to the bedroom on slightly unsteady legs and slammed the door right as Gertrude entered.

Looking at Hamlet’s mother was like peering into a dark alternate timeline in which no one had invented culture. Everything about her from her sharply styled white hair to her perfectly cut white dress screamed dystopian dictator’s wife and, for a second, Horatio was actually struck speechless. How someone as naturally beautiful as Hamlet had come from this blank sheet completely eluded him. Then Gertrude fixed her gaze upon him and he forced a smile.

“Hello.” He said pleasantly. He held out a hand. “You must be Hamlet’s mom.”

“Yes.” Gertrude returned his handshake but hardly paid him anymore mind, eyes scanning around the penthouse. “Where is Hamlet?” She sounded like she might have been concerned but it was hard to tell. Osric took her coat.

“He’s in the bedroom.” Osric said smoothly.

“Sleeping.” Horatio tacked on.

Gertrude nodded. “I’ll go see him.”

“Oh, that’s, uh-” Horatio stepped in front of her and watched her expression shift from distant concern to disdain and annoyance as she observed him fully for the first time. “You might want to leave him alone for now. Long night and all.”

“And who are you again?” Gertrude asked. She took a step to the side and Horatio matched her.

“Horatio. Di Levanti. I’m one of Hamlet’s friends from school.”

Gertrude raised a manicured eyebrow doubtfully. “I don’t believe he’s ever mentioned you before.” She said.

Funny, he never talks about you either except to complain, you frigid bitch, Horatio thought. Outwardly he shrugged. “Might have slipped his mind.”

“Hm.” Gertrude seemed to relent and sat on the couch with her ankles properly crossed. The atmosphere surrounding her was oppressive and Horatio courted the urge to just take Hamlet and leave. He had to go in an hour anyway for play rehearsal. He could sneak Hamlet away then.

“So, Horatio,” Gertrude asked, attention still mostly devoted to the door to Hamlet’s room, “how long have you known Hamlet?”

“Since freshman year.” Horatio sat delicately across from her, suddenly hyper aware of the fact he’d slept in his shirt when in the presence of her creaseless attire. “We met at orientation.”

“And you’re also majoring in acting?”

“No, playwriting.”

“Ah.” Gertrude gave him another once over. “You must be fairly good at it.” Her tone was slightly off, high and aloof at the end.

“How do you mean?” Horatio asked slowly.

“Well, I just mean in order to have gotten into Juilliard you must have received scholarships and such.”

There it was. She was calling him poor. Wonderful. Horatio shrugged again. “I’m pretty good, yeah. And most of my financial aid did in fact come from scholarships.”

Gertrude waved a loose hand. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“It’s fine.” Horatio said with a frigid nonchalance. “I’m quite proud of my scholarships. I worked hard to get into school just like my mother worked relentlessly to earn her living and raise me. We struggled for a while but we’re making it work.” Not that you would be able to relate, he added internally.

Gertrude smiled kindly even as the expression failed to reach her eyes. “Rags to riches story.” She noted.

“More like missing bills to paying rent forward every month but...yeah. Sure.”

“Lunch.” Osric announced and somehow it was the most emotionally moving statement Horatio had ever heard.

Hamlet didn’t join them in enjoying the bland steak and flavorless spinach but made an appearance just before Horatio left. Though Hamlet and Gertrude barely exchanged more than a few words of greeting, the tension between them was undeniable. Hamlet said goodbye without breaking his mother’s gaze and without standing within arms length of Horatio. His smile was sharp as silver and his eyes swam with trepidation as Horatio quietly assured him that he’d check back in after rehearsal. Then Horatio pulled on his jean jacket, now embroidered with the image of crossed fencing foils in front of a heart on the front pocket, and departed.

Rehearsal passed at a snail’s pace, most of it spent mapping out the first round of blocking and checking in on set building. Without the lead, after all, most of the scenes were incomplete. Nevertheless, Horatio allowed himself to sink into the steady forward momentum of directing, a welcome reprise from the current stream of mayhem dominating his life.

The conversation with Ophelia thoroughly rocked that temporary distraction from guilt and worry, however, and the mention of Ophelia’s desire to communicate with Hamlet Sr. upended any peace Horatio had found completely as, for the second time that day, he agreed to suffer for his friends. Although it was, he’d begrudgingly admit, probably a good idea to try to contact Hamlet Sr. again without the weight of Hamlet’s grief throwing a nasty wrench into the communication, it also was obvious that Ophelia intended to use the board, which Horatio couldn’t do. Not again. Never again.

With the appearance of Fortinbras, he walked into the hall and stopped to press his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and his fingers around the bundled palchatte still in his pocket as he counted shaky breaths.

“Horatio.” Polonius’ voice cut through his racing thoughts like a knife. The older man stared Horatio down with fury as Horatio blinked back at him, utterly exhausted. Right. Polonius knew too. Everyone knew that Horatio was some kind of fucking homewrecker.

“Hi.” Horatio said weakly as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He held it behind his back as he sent a discrete text.

“We need to ta-” Polonius began forcefully before a loud ringtone cut him off.

Horatio smiled apologetically. “Sorry, it’s my mom. Gotta take this.”

He answered the call while speed walking away from this latest issue in his life.

“Horatio, what’s up? Why did you ask me to call?” His mom asked. “Are you scared because pretty girls are flirting with you again?”

“No…” Horatio glanced behind him and, seeing that he’d lost Polonius, ducked into the single stall bathroom and locked the door.

“Then what’s wrong?” His mom asked again, voice bridging quickly into concern. “Baby, you sound awful. Are you okay?”

“The ghost of Hamlet’s dead dad gave me anxiety, Gertrude is going to bring on the apocalypse, my friends all have the impulse control of toddlers, and I think I might be Hamlet’s side bitch.” Horatio said miserably as he slid down against the door.

There was a long pause. “Horatio, we’ve talked about this. I don’t understand college lingo. Are you dying or what, sweetheart?”

* * *

“Hamlet, I don’t-”

“Mother, need I remind you which one of us just tried to kill ourselves?” Hamlet snapped. He pulled his quilt off his bed with considerable pain and effort, but managed to drag it to the couch anyways. He wrapped himself in it, flicking through the options on the TV. The fastest way to get Mother to lose interest in him was by acting like what he was: Her child.

“Is that…” she stumbled over her words now that it was just them. “That’s a child’s cartoon. You’re an adult.”

“Dad watched this with me,” Hamlet said dismissively. Moomin was not a kid’s show. It was a universal salve for all injuries. “Dad’s an adult.”

“I came here to visit you, not to watch cartoons,” she said harshly.

“Osric!” Hamlet called, deliberately ignoring her. He only had another...two hours before freedom. Or at least, two hours before Ophelia took her off his hands and Horatio came back. “I want tea.”

“Right away,” Osric said. “I’m putting milk in it.”

“No,” Hamlet and his mother said in unison.

“He needs the extra calories while he’s healing,” Osric said fiercely. Hamlet supposed it would be hard to live with his family for eleven years and not caught onto the fact that he, at least, lacked willpower when yelled at.

“I suppose it’s fine, then,” his mother hissed.

Hamlet nestled deeper into the blankets. He was very cold now that there was no one to leech body heat off of. He also felt unbearably lonely. It was like his mother’s presence managed to suck all possible comfort from a room, leaving it stark and cold and awful. He missed Horatio. And Ophelia. If he could have stood up for longer than ten minutes without falling over, he’d have run to rehearsal, if for no other reason than being able to bask in the warmth of the spotlight or curl up in Horatio’s lap as he did director things.

Hamlet sat up as Osric brought him tea and a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel. It was masala chai; a weak spot for him. He knew that, since Osric made it, it would have honey in it. He knew that _technically_ it counted as sugar, but it had antibacterial properties and came from bees. That meant it had to be good for you, right? More importantly, he glanced up and saw the disgust on his mother’s face. He smirked and took a sip. Might as well add insult to injury now that he was officially the worst son ever.

“Hamlet, we need to talk about what happened,” his mother finally said, sitting in an armchair across from the couch. Osric sat beside him, much like how his father used to when she was mad at him. Hamlet moved ever so slightly closer to him.

“I don’t want to,” Hamlet said childishly. He stared at Moomin with determination. Dad was technically dead, which meant that he no longer had to worry about going home and having consequences to his actions if he were rude to her.

“You sliced open your wrists like some kind of deranged teenage girl, downed sleeping pills, and woke up attached to oxygen,” his mother said tactlessly. If he were actually suicidal, this might have triggered him. Maybe it did anyway. He just sipped his tea. “Is this because you’re so far from home? I knew it was a bad idea-”

“No,” Hamlet said sharply. “I would have gone all the way if I had to live in the same house as you and _him_.”

“Don’t you dare talk about Claudius like that,” she said poisonously. “After everything he’s done for you and your father-”

“You mean like, oh, I don’t know. Having him killed?” Hamlet shouted. Osric placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hamlet Louis-Etienne Kierkegaard!” She shouted back, perfect features drawn in anger. “Don’t make me call Saint Anne’s!”

“As if I’d let myself get institutionalized in Paris,” Hamlet scoffed. “I’d rather die than go back to that city with you.”

“_Hamlet!_” She snarled, though there was fear in her voice. “Don’t make those jokes!”

Hamlet laughed hollowly. “You think I’m joking?” He narrowed his eyes on her. “Just try and get me on a plane,” he challenged. She bit her cheek but stayed silent.

“I think, perhaps, it may be best to let Hamlet rest,” Osric interjected gently. “Ms. Kierkegaard, may I drive you to your hotel?”  
“Can he be left alone?” She asked, with more than a sliver of genuine concern.

Osric looked at him seriously. Hamlet stared back, but found it difficult to maintain eye contact. He glanced away and he lost. “I’ll ask Bernardo to drive you, ma’am.”

“Very well.” She said coldly. “Hamlet, I’m scratching your name from the Paris show.”

“Good,” Hamlet smiled as Osric walked her to the door.

Hamlet coiled himself around his hot water bottle, exhausted and chilled. He finished his tea, setting the mug on the coffee table. He wanted to sleep. More specifically, he wanted to be held. Reassured that it was a good thing that his little performance ended up being nothing more than a scare. Osric returned, sitting beside him again.

“Are you alright?” He asked with a sigh.

“Yes,” Hamlet said convincingly. “Maybe a little tired.”

“Should I help you back to bed?” Osric asked, dark eyes gentle with concern and care.

“I can rest here,” Hamlet lay down on a plush cushion. “Osric?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you rub my back until I fall asleep?” Hamlet asked. Osric smiled.  
“You haven’t required that since you were twelve,” he said gently.

“Desperate times,” Hamlet said as he fixed his eyes on Moomin. Better that than to acknowledge that he was genuinely unsettled by the ordeal as well.

He woke up two hours later to the door opening. Moomin was still on, and Osric was gone. He looked over the back of the couch, panicking for a moment that it was his mother. He nearly cried out in relief when he saw that it was only Horatio, who shoved his jacket unceremoniously into Osric’s hands before striding quickly over to the couch.

“Hey,” Horatio said quietly. Hamlet sat up only long enough for Horatio to sit. He lay back down, this time using Horatio’s lap as his pillow. “How are you?”

“My mother is a vampire,” he said grimly. “Will you stay the night?”  
“I...do you want me to?” Horatio asked stiffly.

“Yes,” Hamlet said easily. “If you stay, Osric can make sure the vampire stays in her coffin,” he said as he pulled the quilt higher up.

“Then sure,” Horatio said. It was Thursday, which was the arts equivalent of a Friday, since neither he nor Horatio had classes tomorrow.

“Osric, you can leave now,” Hamlet called towards the kitchen. “Don’t let Mother come back.”

“I won’t, sir,” Osric said. Hamlet was still until he heard the door to the apartment open, close, and lock.

The silence between him and Horatio was oppressive. There was...much to talk about. And none of it would be comfortable. After gathering what remained of his wit, he shut off Moomin, sending them into true quiet. He sat up; one does not have intense conversations lying down, unless it’s following sex.

Horatio seemed unable to look at him. He looked as tired as Hamlet felt, green eyes shrouded by dark circles. Hamlet pulled the blanket tighter around his frame. He wasn’t used to having talks like this. He certainly never talked to anyone about anything like it before.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said quietly. “This will be easier if you at least look at me.”

“It won’t,” Horatio muttered, but Hamlet could hear him clearly.

“You know why I did it,” Hamlet said, forcing himself to be gentle. “Did you want to talk about the, uh-”

“Yes,” Horatio said quickly, running a hand through his curls nervously.

“Right,” Hamlet nodded. “It wasn’t nothing. The kiss on the cheek.”

“But what was it?” Horatio looked at him now, singular interest in his eyes. Hamlet felt his heart jump from his chest into his throat, settling precariously close to his teeth. Whatever sentence he said next, Horatio would probably pick at it forever and never accept another word beside it as truth.

Hamlet reached a bandaged hand to Horatio’s face, touching his cheek lightly. The skin was warm and smooth under his fingers, flush with life and worry. Any words he said, true or not, would be true to Horatio in this moment. For now, however, he seemed frozen, save for the slight catch in his breath as Hamlet stroked his cheek and the slight flutter of his lashes as he blinked. He’d never looked this carefully at his face. Up so close he was painfully handsome.

“It means I’m going to kiss you,” Hamlet whispered. He didn’t give Horatio a chance to fight as he stretched up and kissed him gently on the lips. They were warm and soft; they felt right against his, even as Horatio tore them away.

“What are you doing?” Horatio panted, panic as plain in his eyes as the blush on his cheeks. “What about Ophelia?”

“She’s probably going to leave me anyways,” Hamlet said quietly. He wanted to kiss him again; to be flush against his chest and soak up all his warmth. “Did you dislike it?”

“What?” Horatio’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Dislike…?” He repeated to himself quietly. “No,” he shook his head. “No, I liked it. Hamlet, that’s the problem; you get that, right?”

Hamlet stood, holding a hand out to Horatio in what he hoped looked like an invitation but really ended up being desperation. Standing was hard. After a brief hesitation, Horatio took it and stood with him, following him back to the bedroom. Hamlet paused and closed the door, locking it just in case.

“Sit,” he instructed. Stunned or willing, Horatio sat. “I’ll be right back.”

Hamlet headed to the bathroom to clear his head and do the important things like wash his face and brush his teeth. The minute he got in that bed he’d never want to leave, and that meant doing the nighttime facial routine early. And processing some guilt. True, he was still technically with Ophelia. But he _needed_ Horatio. It was a snake in his stomach; it hurt to be apart from him. His reliability and loyalty were addicting. Hamlet was a stranger to certainty, as were most of his partners and friends. Ophelia and he hadn’t even agreed that they were dating until they’d been screwing for a month, and he never did decide whether he actually liked Laertes. Horatio was different. He knew what he felt, even if Hamlet didn’t. He was an abysmal liar, and even if he could, he wouldn’t. If he told Hamlet he loved him, or hated him, or that he’d die for him, it would be an undeniable fact rather than a work of poetic fiction. Hamlet couldn’t remember the last time he trusted something he felt; so often it was lost in the wordsmithing.

He needed him. He needed his audience; his undivided attention. If he’d learned anything from being banned from calling him it was that the certainty of his friendship was the air he breathed, and without it he’d die. It was just a matter of how to keep him close. Of how close he could keep him. He finished moisturizing and brushing his teeth. Nothing left to do besides prove how deep the deep end of the pool was. He grabbed his bathrobe and returned to the room.

He pulled on his pajama pants before getting into bed, leaving the shirt since it had some blood on it. It didn’t matter anyways. This was an exploration, and he was reasonably certain that he wanted to cross as many boundaries as he could without getting into too much trouble with his conscience or Horatio’s. He sat beside him on the bed at last.

“Take off your outside clothes,” Hamlet said quietly. Horatio looked at him pleadingly, but he shook his head. “I don’t want to touch your jeans,” he said firmly.

“It’s...complicated,” Horatio squirmed slightly, crossing his legs. Hamlet felt a shot of lust join the guilt in his stomach.

“I don’t care,” Hamlet tried for commanding but came up with breathy arousal. He reached for Horatio’s fly only to have his hands quickly caught and returned to his own lap.

“I’ll do it,” Horatio said quickly. He stood up, struggling slightly to shed his pants. Hamlet hadn’t actually watched him do this before, and it was intoxicating. He could see the outline of everything through his tight-fitting shorts, and he felt compelled to stand and wrap his arms around his waist. So he did. He ran his hands under his shirt, drunk on the warmth of his skin and the familiar smell of his clothes. He slid a hand down his waist, stopping at his hip. His fingertips were less than an inch from his groin, and it took all his willpower not to touch.

“Keep me warm,” Hamlet said into his back. Horatio gently unwrapped his arms as he turned to face him. His cheeks were hot and pink, and his gaze was no longer one solely of guilt. When he looked at him, his eyes were hungry as famine, with only the barest trace of hesitation.

“Are you sure?” Horatio barely managed the words. Hamlet nodded as he pulled back the covers, shedding his bathrobe and draping it over the foot of the bed. He shivered now that he was shirtless.

Once they were under the covers, Hamlet turned on his side, no longer so ashamed of being well past their six-inch boundary. He wrapped his arms carefully around Horatio, minding the bandages. This time Horatio seemed receptive, or at the very least beyond caring. Hamlet gasped as he felt his warm hands on the bare skin of his waist, sending waves of sensation and static through him. He rolled over top of him, straddling his waist for support as he leaned back and started rolling up Horatio’s shirt with difficulty.

“Can you just-” Hamlet said with frustration as his stitches screamed.

“Are you-”

“Yes!” Hamlet said sharply. “Just take it off. I’m freezing.”

Horatio complied, easily casting aside the garment. Hamlet ran his hands over his bare chest and stomach, feeling the strong flesh tense under his touch. Later. They could explore that later. He leaned forward to kiss him again, shuddering as he felt his cock press against his own, only adding to his desperate arousal. He knew Horatio had to be able to feel it. He’d feel awful about it later, no doubt, but at least now he wouldn’t have to explain his feelings.

As he kissed him for a second time, Horatio seemed to get the message. He gripped his waist firmly with one hand, the other stroking his hair. It was nothing short of consumptive, and had he been single and in better health Hamlet would have insisted on taking it further, but he hurt. This position put strain on his wounds and he didn’t have enough energy or blood to maintain both a boner and consciousness. He pulled away miserably.

“I’m going to pass out,” Hamlet said between breaths. Immediately the mood shifted: Horatio’s touch turned gentle as he helped him settle back against the pillows on his side. “Hold me,” Hamlet said, searching for Horatio’s hand. Within seconds he had it and was pressed flush against him, savoring the warmth and surety of his touch. He nestled even closer despite the frustration they both felt about their lingering, unresolved arousal.

“Are you feeling better?” Horatio asked weakly, hand pressed against Hamlet’s chest.

“Yes,” Hamlet lied. Now that he wasn’t actively kissing him the reality was setting in. He felt Horatio press his face into his hair. “I’m going to sleep now,” he said, well aware that it was probably only nine at night.

“What do we do if...you know…” _If Ophelia calls_, Hamlet knew he meant. He swallowed hard. What would they do?

“I’ll be asleep,” Hamlet said. “Just tell her that you’re here and I’m sleeping.”

“Right,” Horatio said nervously. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Horatio,” Hamlet said, settling himself down. Even with the impending crippling guilt it was easy to give into the exhaustion.

“Goodnight,” Horatio said uncertainly.

Horatio tightened his grip on him, which only helped Hamlet drift off. Guilt was a tomorrow feeling. This was now. And right now he had Horatio. He was warm, and for the first time in months he felt safe.


	12. Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia has a not-date. Horatio is crushed. Hamlet starts a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thanks for sticking with us and letting us know how we're doing! We love to hear from you via kudos and comment!
> 
> Also sorry that the weird notes from the first chapter appear at the bottom of each new chapter?? We still haven't figured out how to fix it.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Panic attack, misogyny, and references to suicide.

Ophelia slept until it was lunchtime, which wasn’t very surprising, but it was disappointing nonetheless. The intense guilt of not returning to Hamlet crept into her throat, but Gertrude was a lot and she needed sleep. Taking care of herself, right? That's what Laertes told her to do. She could deal with Hamlet and Horatio once she had eaten, yet the last thing she wanted to do was eat alone.

There were three options. She could call Hamlet or Horatio and hang with them, but that would mean she had to see Gertrude again and she wasn’t quite ready for that. She could call her brother, but he would force her to talk about what had happened between Hamlet and Horatio. The same went double for her father. So there was no one and she was alone.

Ophelia pushed a few pieces of paper off her desk. And she was alone because she hadn’t tried to make any other friends even though obviously Hamlet and Horatio liked each other more than her. She tried to recover from her mini-tantrum and picked up the paper from the floor. On a neon green sticky note, there was Fortinbras’ number. Well, she supposed it was never too late to start making friend.

“Hi! This is Ophelia is Fortinbras there?” She asked. Dumb question. Of course she was there. It was her cell phone number. This was going swimmingly.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she laughed. That was good. Laughter was good. Why on earth was Ophelia so nervous? “What’s up?”

“Uhh, do you want to go to lunch with me in a bit? I know it’s kinda short notice, sorry.” Ophelia bit her lip. Why was she such a weirdo? It was so difficult to talk to a normal person and not the two drama queens she usually conversed with. 

“Nah man, you’re all good. I have a ton of time before practice. Where were you thinking?” She asked. Ophelia could imagine her with her legs propped over the arm of a chair and it was incredibly charming.

“Umm, there’s a cute cafe about a five minute walk from my apartment, if you’re into that sort of thing.” Ophelia blushed into the receiver of her phone.

“Yeah! That sounds super cute. Is it one of those with the outdoor seating?” she asked.

“I’m pretty sure,” she answered.

“Then can I bring my dog? She’s super cute and I need to take her out for a walk. I totally get it if you’re not into dogs though, like, it’s totally fine,” Fortinbras stammered.

“I would love to meet your dog!” Ophelia gasped. “What kind is she?”

Fortinbras laughed. More laughter! It was a success! “She’s a german shepherd puppy. She is. The. Sweetest.”

“Oh, wonderful! That’s the best possible answer!” Ophelia giggled. At least there was something to laugh about. “I’ll see you soon? How about 1:00?”

“Sounds like a plan! See you soon!” Fortinbras said and she hung up.

Ophelia had half an hour to figure out what she was going to wear to lunch. She could glam it up or go full on floral. Or she could wear some of the jewelry that Hamlet didn’t really like. Or, or she could go athletic chic. That seemed like something that would be up Fortinbras’ alley. Or she could dress like a normal person. That might be good. She didn’t want to scare away a potential new friend. She could introduce Fortinbras to the eccentricities of her fashion sense later once she was already invested.

In the end, Ophelia went with a simple pair of ripped jeans and a floral blouse she made herself. It wasn’t quite cold out yet, but it might be chilly, so she took a jean jacket with her. Hamlet would be ashamed. Good.

Ophelia shook her head. She wasn’t supposed to be angry and bitter. She was kind and compassionate and sensitive to the fact that he just tried to kill himself. The fact that he kissed their best friend; her best friend; didn’t matter. Not right now. 

The sun sparkled in the sky. Sometimes Ophelia missed living in the middle of nowhere, but today, she could barely tell the difference.

“Hey! Ophelia!” Fortinbras called from across the street. Her dog really was the cutest thing she ever had seen.

“Hey!” Ophelia waved back as Fortinbras jogged across the sheet. She wore athletic shorts and a Frankenstein t-shirt. Not the look Ophelia expected, but she was here for it.

“So, what have you been up to?” Fortinbras asked as she propped her elbow on the table. Oh, she was charming, super, super charming.

“Uh, not much. I had dinner with Hamlet’s mom, so that was terrible. But other than that it was fine. Lots of sleeping. Did some sketches for Horatio’s show.” Ophelia needed to stop being so painfully awkward, but Fortinbras was just so cute.

“Man, that sucks. Parents are rough. Cool for Horatio’s show though. You should talk to the kid doing set design. He’s not very good. Not that I know any better, but I would think…”

“I think I remember Horatio talking about that once or twice. I don’t really know much about it either, but I guess I can see what I can do.” Ophelia shrugged. “How are you liking acting, by the way?”

“It’s fun. People are a bit dramatic though, man. Like, this is probably so rude, but I can’t say I’m particularly a fan of Hamlet as Denton.” Fortinbras looked away as if she had said something wrong.

“Oh, it’s totally fine. He’d rather be playing Imogen, I think.”

“And I’d rather play Denton. We can switch,” Fortinbras laughed. 

“Oh, I’m sure Horatio would love that,” Ophelia said sarcastically. “He’s only been prepping this for the past two years. And god forbid you take the leading role from Hamlet. He would just…” she trailed away. Die. She was going to say that he’d just die, but that’s probably not a good joke to make right now.

“What’s with him, anyway? Why is he, I don’t know, like that?” she asked with a vague hand gesture.

“I don’t know,” Ophelia tried to wave the question away. “He’s just a drama king and he’s been through a ton. He mellows out sometimes, I swear.”

“I’m just surprised you’re dating someone like that. You can do so much better.”

“I...can?” Ophelia asked. That was a lame answer. Usually people thought Hamlet was the best anyone could get. He was pretty, rich, and talented. He had more fire and passion than the rest of anyone else combined. What was there not to love?

“Uh, duh, my man. He’s an A-grade asshole. I swear he wants to crawl into Horatio’s lap.” Something in Fortinbras’ face shifted. “Oh my God. That was so rude of me. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ophelia said with only a half-forced smile. “He can have that effect on people. I try not to think about it a lot.”

“Yeah, that’s reasonable…” Fortinbras trailed away.

“So, what’s your dog’s name?” Ophelia asked, trying to make everything just a touch less prickling.

Fortinbras smiled. “Babadook!” The little, brown puppy perked up at the sound of her name.

“From the movie?” Ophelia asked excitedly. If there was anything she could get behind, it was naming a sweet puppy after a grisly horror movie.

“Yeah! Totally! What else could it be? You into horror movies?”

“I am!” Ophelia smiled. Finally, she was with one of her own.

“Okay, okay,” Fortinbras said as she tried to contain her excitement. “You have to watch them with me. My entire team is made of scaredy cats and I’ve been dying to see a few in theaters.”

“I’d love to! Hamlet and Horatio aren’t really into them either.”

“Their loss,” Fortinbras shrugged.

And they kept talking about movies and school and pets and a million other things until more than an hour had passed by. If Ophelia were thinking properly, she might have realized that she should have gone back to Hamlet by now because he needed her. That’s what the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach was. When she thought about it, who was she kidding? He had Horatio. He could last another half an hour. Fortinbras was sweet and they liked the same things and Ophelia had always wanted another friend.

* * *

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, “you need to calm down.”

“Can’t.” Horatio kept his eyes fixed on his phone, which was currently being held above Hamlet’s head. Hamlet was short. Horatio could probably get it. But what if he knocked the other man over and hurt him? He still hadn’t quite recovered from losing so much blood, not to mention the healing scars. Horatio took a step forward just as Hamlet took one back.

“Please, Hamlet,” Horatio begged, “just give me my phone. Please.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Hamlet asked, eyes narrowed on Horatio in suspicion. In the pale light of a New York dawn, his mused blond hair shone like whispers of gold while his bare chest swept slightly out in a confident curve. His dark eyes seemed as infinite as chasms. The image of pure beauty was enough to make Horatio’s chest physically ache now that he knew for sure how soft that skin truly was and how that hair turned slightly puffy with sleep and how sweetly that cock-

Horatio squeezed his eyes shut as if he could use them to create barriers within his mind, blocking out his deepest, darkest impulses. “Please, Hamlet.” He said. “I need it. I really, really need it.”

“Horatio,” Hamlet tried again, obviously struggling to keep his voice even as the edges of exasperation and maybe dread crept in like silt along a seashore, “who are you going to call? There’s no one you need to phone right now, just...come back to bed and we’ll talk some more.”

Talk. Hamlet  _never_ offered to talk. And, oh, he looked so sweet and kind and vulnerable standing before him half bare and unbound. They’d held each other through the night as if it was something they’d done for years, millennium, utterly comfortable in each other’s hallows and sharp edges. The sensation of Hamlet pressing against his groin, the unmistakable desire heavy in his breath. It was addictive. It was the cinematic precursor to his ever-prevalent sex dream: Hamlet lavishing his attention solely on Horatio, lusting after him, and Horatio being able to give Hamlet a taste of all the warmth and tenderness he deserved.

Horatio held a hand over his mouth as something tar-like and pitch black slammed against the back of his throat. “Give me my phone- Please, you have to- I need to tell them-”

“Tell them what? Who?” Hamlet looked wary because Horatio couldn’t even manage to keep him happy for a single night.

“Everyone.” Horatio said seriously and between small gasps. “I need to- I need to tell everyone, everything- I can’t, I just can’t-”

Guilt. Guilt was the constant and Horatio had thought that he could handle it, keep it down and away and controlled like the good fucking former-Catholic he was, but he’d been wrong. He was drowning in the darkness. Filled from the inside out and if he didn’t do something, he was certain he would die. He was dying.

“Let me call Ophelia.” Horatio stepped forward again, one hand outstretched even as Hamlet retreated to the kitchen counter. “I need to tell her.”

Hamlet took a sharp breath between clenched his teeth. “She...she doesn’t need to know. Not yet.”

“I-” Horatio stopped. He let his hands run up from his mouth to his hairline. “We- You cheated on her! She’s my- she’s my friend! She’s our friend and we just spent a night with our fucking dicks pressed together!”

“We didn’t!” Hamlet protested. “We just kissed and-”

“We made out!” Horatio corrected in despair.

“No, we did not. It was a quick kiss!”

“No, no,” Horatio decided he couldn’t get the phone from Hamlet without hurting him and thus set to pacing, running his hands through his hair with each step. Nervous habit. He was developing nervous habits. That made him more nervous. “The thing on the cheek,  that was a quick kiss! These were thirty seconds each, on the lips, skin-on-skin contact kisses.”

Hamlet glared at him but the motion was weak. “I thought you liked it.” He snapped.

“I did.” Horatio whispered. “I loved it.” He suddenly couldn’t meet Hamlet’s eye as the muck in his chest mingled with a single thread of something soft and bright. This was everything he’d wanted. Everything.

There was a pregnant pause. When Horatio failed to move again, Hamlet sat on one of the bar stools. Horatio winced in sympathy as he saw the slight heave in his friend’s chest. “Okay…” Hamlet said slowly. His naturally compelling gaze drew Horatio’s like a wildfire. Consumptive, disastrous, and yet he couldn’t look away. The smoke stung his eyes. “Okay.” Hamlet repeated. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re not going to call Ophelia. Yet.” He cut Horatio’s protest off. “She’s...we’ll tell her later. Or, I don’t know. She’ll find out. She always does.” Hamlet’s voice was a tinge bitter and more than a tinge regretful. Of course it was. He’d just ruined his relationship with Ophelia, wonderful, amazing, beautiful Ophelia, for  _Horatio_.  Plain, pitiful, measly old him.

“I need to-” Horatio started again.

“Need to what.” Hamlet said harshly. “She’s not going to forgive me.”

And he knew that. Horatio knew and that’s why he needed to tell her because he needed to be rightly punished for whatever transgression this was. If he couldn’t seek divine judgement, at least he could seek Ophelia. He couldn’t deceive her, after all. Better that she knew and hated him forever and ever and ever.

He took forced himself to stop pacing. “Then- I don’t- If I can’t call Ophelia, let me call Laertes! Or Polonius! Somebody, somebody needs to know.”

“ _ We _ know.”

“That’s the problem!” Horatio erupted and Hamlet flinched back. Great, great, Horatio was hurting everyone now. There was no one safe from him. “I need to apologize. So they know.” He rambled on regardless. “For letting you kiss me and- and for being a temptress or whatever and for dreaming about fucking you against the boy’s dressing room wall every time I closed my eyes for the last four months and for thinking about how pretty you are all the time and for wanting you to want me back so, so badly and-”

“Horatio…” Hamlet said softly. “That’s-”

“And for stealing that pen in fourth grade!”

Another pause. “What.” Hamlet asked flatly. 

Horatio swallowed hard. “I thought it was a free handout from the bank but it was not.” He admitted as he wrapped his arms tight around his waist. “And I need to apologize to my mom for taking ten dollars from her to buy a full sized candy bar when I was eleven and I need to track down my pre-k teacher and tell her that it was actually me and not Daniel who pushed Mary over on the playground and-”

“Okay, we’re done.” Hamlet sighed. He slipped Horatio’s phone into the nearest drawer and closed it firmly. “Just- come back to the bedroom for a few minutes.”

“But my mom, Hamlet,” Horatio stressed, “I owe her ten dollars.”

“I’ll write her a check for a thousand.” Hamlet said.

“But she already thinks you’re ugly and uncultured, if I let her know you’re ungodly rich too, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.” Horatio said without thinking.

Hamlet looked aghast. “Ugly?” He said incredulously. “Has she  seen me?”

“I need to see Ophelia.” Horatio repeated to avoid blurting out that his mom had once compared Hamlet to the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

“Well, I’m not letting you leave.” Hamlet said firmly.

“But I need to.”

“Do you want to do this again?” Hamlet asked and the words brought Horatio to a screeching halt.

“What?” He asked limply.

Hamlet seemed to steel himself before walking up to Horatio. His breath caught painfully sharp as Hamlet slipped a hand beneath his shirt, fingers barely ghosting his skin. The very edge of his wrist bandages dragged along in the hand’s wake, a pulse of pleasure followed by a painful reminder.

“Don’t you want to do this again?” Hamlet repeated. Horatio strained the sound for any indication of obvious manipulation in his tone but came up blank. When Hamlet looked up to him, his gaze was a million unreadable things but it was also honest. “We can be together. Like this. You can stay with me.”

It was Horatio’s dearest dream. It was his worst nightmare. “I can’t…” He said weakly. “You’re Ophelia’s boyfriend.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Then let me tell her.”

“No.” Hamlet said guiltily. “Not yet.”

“When?”

“Later.” Hamlet bit his lip. “We’ll tell her later.”

Always later, always putting things off, always. Horatio was sick and so sick of it. He shook his head and snatched up a stray thread of resolve from his diminishing reserve. “I’m sorry.” Horatio said, hoping that the measly apology covered enough. “I need to. I’ll be back. Promise.”

Hamlet’s emotional mess solidified to rage in a half second and he turned on a heel to stalk back to the bedroom. Horatio flinched from the slammed door as the tar in his soul congealed.

He continued to pace, keeping one ear to the bedroom, until Osric arrived. Apparently, Gertrude was set to come over around four, which gave Horatio about five hours to ruin his friendship with Ophelia because, even if Hamlet currently despised him, he refused to leave him alone with his mom without adequate reason.

Ophelia wasn’t in her dorm nor was she present in her normal lurking grounds around the studio. Horatio tried to be mindful of his outward appearance but there really was no helping the fact that he was running around in a wrinkled shirt with his overgrown hair piled to one side of his head and bags the size of dinner plates beneath his eyes. He was starting to get visibly desperate by the time two rolled around and he spotted Ophelia sitting in a cafe.

Perfect. Well, not perfect. Public. Horatio slowed down a step as he noted the mass of people around Ophelia. He hadn’t said a word yet and already he could feel their judgement at his back, poisoned coffees and acid words. He needed to get back to Hamlet.

“Ophelia.” Horatio panted out.

Ophelia glanced over to him, obviously startled. “Oh...hi, Horatio…” she said, eyeing him strangely. “Why are you-”

“I kissed your boyfriend.” Horatio announced without preamble.

A shard of ice entered Ophelia’s warm eyes as she leaned back in her chair. “Horatio,” she said sternly, “I am not doing this right now-”

“No, you don’t understand.” Horatio plowed over her. “I wasn’t talking about a few days ago. I meant last night. I made out with your boyfriend last night and I am so, so sorry that I’m not actually sorry but also I am incredibly, absolutely sorry. I understand if you can’t forgive me. Please just-  _ please _ don’t forgive me.” He avoided her gaze as the world went fuzzy around the edges. “I- that’s it. Sorry to bother you.”

“Horatio?” A new voice said and Horatio blinked at the sudden appearance of Fortinbras. He gave himself a moment to think over whether he needed to apologize to her too.

“Dude, are you crying?” Fortinbras asked.

“Sorry I thought you were hot when I first saw you.” Horatio eventually decided. “I thought you were a guy.”

“Uh, what?”

Hamlet. Horatio straightened his shoulders and smiled pitifully first at Fortinbras then at the distraught Ophelia. A new stab of pitch guilt. He should be comforting her. That was his job, that had always been his job, letting Ophelia cry on his shoulder after a bad day or a bad fight or a bad night, silently enjoying the feeling of her tight curls in his fingers and her trusting company. He’d just lost everything.

“Sorry.” Horatio choked out again. He turned on his heels and power walked back towards Hamlet’s penthouse, internally preparing himself for whatever consequences lay ahead.

* * *

“Sir, are you feeling alright?” Osric asked through the closed door. Horatio left...four hours ago? And every minute compounded his own guilt. Guilt combined with the knowledge that Mother was coming in for one last visit before her flight back to Paris was enough to make him really, truly regret throwing up those pills.

“Osric, have you ever had an affair?” Hamlet asked, opening the door. Alone was bad.

“You aren’t married,” Osric said easily, though there was the slightest bit of intrigue in his eyes. “Do you perhaps mean to imply that you’re cheating on Ophelia?”

“What?” Hamlet blinked. “I haven’t screwed him.”

“I’m not a fool, Hamlet,” Osric used his first name. That meant it was serious.

“I…” Hamlet considered lying. “I may have kissed him last night.”

Osric only nodded. “And you feel bad about it?”

“Yes,” Hamlet sighed. “But I also don’t regret it. Does that make sense?”

“You’ve had a crush on him for quite some time--”

“ _ What? _ ” Hamlet felt his face flush against his will. Osric raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve always preferred his company to that of your partners,” Osric said slowly. “And I can’t help but notice that you become easier to reason with when he’s around.”

“I’m always easy to reason with,” Hamlet huffed, crossing his arms.

“Sir,” Osric said, taking evident pains to stay composed. “You have a...resolute willpower, when you so choose.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Hamlet said, narrowing his eyes.

“I recommend you get dressed before your mother comes,” Osric said, avoiding the question. Hamlet sighed but let the issue die.

“I don’t want to,” Hamlet said. If he got dressed, it meant that he had to commit to his entire morning routine, which he was approximately six hours behind on.

“I highly recommend being dressed when she gets here,” Osric took a warning tone. “Do you remember the beach incident?”

“Osric!” Hamlet said sharply. “I told you to let me forget!”

“Then perhaps put on a shirt,” Osric was unmoved.

“When is Horatio coming back?” Hamlet asked, twitchy now that they were burning through the hour quickly.

“I do not keep tabs on him as I do you and your mother,” Osric said with just a hint of exasperation. “Perhaps you could text him?”

“I stole his phone,” Hamlet scrunched up his nose. These were unforeseen consequences.

“Then you will have to wait,” Osric sighed. “I’m certain he’ll be back.”

Hamlet sensed a judgement somewhere in there. It was probably not about the whole ‘kissing boys’ part, considering the fact that Osric never batted an eyelash at Laertes. Probably the cheating. That was almost certainly it.

Hamlet returned to his room, desperate to find a compromise between acknowledging the fact that if his mother saw his body she’d point out every single ‘objectionable’ area and the unbearable desire not to be awake. He grabbed the unbearably soft hoodie his dad got him when they went to visit his grandparents in Denmark the year prior. It said ‘Skål’ in garish red letters, and screamed tourist in every possible way, but it was soft and not quite clothes. Plus, his mother would despise its existence more than she despised his.

He was halfway through deciding whether or not to put on concealer when he heard the door open and close. It was either the devil herself or Horatio. It was a gamble he was unwilling to take without a formal confirmation from Osric.

“Osric!” Hamlet shouted. “Who is it?” He didn’t have to wait for his answer. Horatio burst into his bedroom looking genuinely bereaved, and Hamlet would know. He abandoned his makeup bag. “Horatio?”

“I’m sorry,” Horatio barely managed to speak. He looked like he’d run across the city. He probably had. He was also crying. “I’m sorry I left,” Horatio braced himself against the doorframe of the bathroom, covering his face with one hand as he did a poor job of stifling his sobs. Hamlet took a breath and forced composure.

He only knew of one method of getting Horatio to stop crying, so he stretched up on his toes and kissed him on the cheek. Unlike in the possession, this seemed to backfire. He only cried harder. “Horatio…”

“I’m fine,” Horatio said too quickly, drawing a sharp breath and running his hands over his face. “I’m fine,” he said with more resolve, standing up straighter.

“Did you tell her?” Hamlet asked. He needed to know just how bad the next day twenty-four hours would be.

“Yeah,” Horatio nodded, wiping his eyes.

“And…?” Hamlet pressed.

“Are you-” Horatio finally looked at him. “Are you wearing...a hoodie?”

Hamlet grimaced. Right. This wasn’t his usual look. “Yes,” he said. “What happened with Ophelia?” He swatted Horatio’s hand as he reached towards the hoodie in disbelief. “Leave it.”

“I-” Horatio came back to himself. “I don’t know. She was with Fortinbras. I, uh, just remember apologizing. And she hates my guts now, and will never forgive me, and I’ve just lost my best friend-”

“Horatio! Focus!” Hamlet said sternly, gripping his face in his hands. “She hates  me , you idiot. You aren’t exactly the dark seductress type.”

“But-”

Nope,” Hamlet cut him off. “As far as Ophelia is concerned, you’re probably my victim,” he sighed. “I’m sure that she’s going to forgive you.”

“But,” Horatio looked like his brain might overheat and crash at any minute. “I kissed you. I  _ liked _ kissing you,” he repeated. “She knows. She has to know how jealous I was; how much of a filthy, lecherous-”

“Horatio, for the love of god, stop talking!” Hamlet ran a hand through his curls, half in an effort to calm him and half in an effort to ease himself. “It’s over. It happened. You know I liked it too, so just calm down and kiss me again.”

“I-” Hamlet had to marvel at the conflict on his face. Finally Horatio’s face settled into an expression of resignation. Hamlet took it as an invitation, kissing him on the lips in what he hoped was a comforting gesture but probably came off as hungry or needy.

“Better?” Hamlet asked as he pulled away. Horatio’s cheeks were a healthy shade of pink and at least now there was a hint of bliss in his bright eyes.

“...Yes,” Horatio conceded.

“Good.” He heard the door again. “Mother is here. My goal is to get her to leave in under ten minutes, so you’re going to stay back here, take a shower, cry or whatever you need to do, and babysit my phone.”

“What?” Horatio asked as Hamlet shoved his phone into his hands.

“Shower. You need it. I don’t know, relax,” Hamlet looked him up and down. The blush lingered. “Do whatever you do to unwind. Jerk off if you need to. I don’t care so long as you don’t leave a mess.” With that, he abandoned Horatio and left the bedroom.

“Hamlet,” his mother said. She stiffened as she saw his appearance. “Is that a-”

“Yes.” Hamlet said flatly.

“ _ Why? _ ” She asked incredulously, disgust clear as crystal on her perfectly manicured face.

“I’m depressed,” Hamlet crossed his arms.

“That isn’t an excuse to stop taking care of yourself,” she said through a tense jaw. Hamlet rolled his eyes. Apparently she was over her ounce of sympathy

“Don’t you have a plane to catch?” He bristled. Every second spent under her radioactive gaze was another step towards premature death to cancer. She frowned beautifully.

“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to come say goodbye, and to drop this off for Ophelia,” she said, pulling a folder out of her bag. Hamlet narrowed his eyes.

“What is it?” Hamlet said cautiously.

“Business cards and an invitation to the Paris show, as well as an application form for Elsinore’s design team.” Her voice was about as pleasant as turpentine, and it left a taste equally as acrid in Hamlet’s mouth.

“An application?” He said, forcing the venom back down his throat.

“She and I evidently have a mutual interest in cutting edge design work,” she said, either unaware of his murderous intent or uncaring. “I’ve notified my secretary to move her to the front of our applicants, should she apply. You should be proud.”

“ _ Very _ ,” Hamlet said with all the sweetness of arsenic. All of a sudden he no longer felt guilt. He felt an overwhelming wave of disgust, but no guilt.

“I have to take my leave,” she said, eyeing him with her version of maternal concern. “If Osric calls me once more about your... _ issues _ ,” she said with confused revulsion, “I will invoke my right as your medical proxy to send you to Saint Anne’s.”

Hamlet felt every inch of his skin prickle. “Oh, trust me Mother,” he said lightly, “if he calls you about my  _ issues _ again you’ll be calling the undertaker.”

“Hamlet--” She started.

“Have a safe flight back to hell,” Hamlet said as he returned to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He took several breathes and sat on the bed. Horatio was in the shower, which was good. It gave him a minute to collect himself; to check his phone. A text from Ophelia. She wanted to ‘talk.’ What a complete surprise.

_ 4:15PM _

_ Now? _ Hamlet texted back. The little dots indicated she was glued to her phone as well.

_ 4:15PM _

_ _ _Now. On my way. Be there in ten._ She texted back. This was...less than ideal, since Horatio was here and in the shower. Two highly incriminating facts. Osric was out driving Mother back to the airport, so he couldn’t recommend a neutral ground. That was okay. He had a feeling this could be resolved quickly. He took off the sweater, putting on his bathrobe instead. He didn’t want the memory of whatever this nightmare was staining the memory of that trip. He pulled all the frayed pieces of his composure and shoved them back into place, seating himself at the kitchen island by the folder. All he had to do was wait.

_ Elsinore _ _._ The throne of Euro-fashion, and thus one of the pulse points of the international industry. A perfect opportunity for a burgeoning artist like Ophelia. The place women go to die. She’d learn that the hard way, or she’d become their queen of undeath, just like his mother. Either way, it proved that there  was a universal shared trait between all women: their desire to form unions between each other to torment him. Every single one was secretly a viper waiting to sink their teeth into him; judge him; tear him limb from limb for is every flaw. The only difference was their taste in flaw.

Ophelia didn’t bother to knock. Why would she? He sat calmly, smiling at her lightly as she seethed at him even across the room. She looked like she’d been crying. Was there another person in the hall? Must not be Laertes, since he was still alive. It didn’t matter. He held out the folder, complete with the Elsinore seal.

“Congratulations,” he said with all the beauty of wolfsbane. “My mother  adores you.”


	13. Muses Sing of Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia leaves. Horatio cries. Hamlet is furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks (as always) for reading! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Misogyny, references to starvation/suicide.

“I should hope so. My work is worthy of adoration,” Ophelia seethed. Of all the hells in all the worlds, this was the deepest and darkest and Hamlet threw her in a pit of snakes. She should just state her business and leave, calm and cool as the rain. It would hurt him so much to not have the suffering to atone for his wrongs. Hamlet should bleed for doing this to Horatio.

“And what does it say about your work that it’s adored by that frigid bitch? Are you proud that you get to be her little venomous slut for hire?” Hamlet hissed as he circled around her. He was still pale and shaky from blood loss. Maybe he would faint if it rushed all to his head.

“I am always proud of my work, Hamlet.” This was Ophelia not taking his bait. “It’s the only thing your mother’s good for. I’m not an idiot. I know what she is.”

“And yet you fall for her anyway, like a fucking dog.”

“I’m manipulating her.” Ophelia drew every syllable out as if she were talking to a child. “I don’t want to work for her. I want to work for your  _ father’s _ magazine.”

“She stole it from him.”

“And I’m taking it back,” Ophelia snapped. “Please hand me the folder.”

“I’ll rip it to shreds. Then you’ll have nothing.”

“I already have nothing. Give me the goddamned folder, Hamlet. Why can’t I work towards my career when you get to starve yourself sick for yours and I’m not allowed to bat an eye?”

“Because she’s my uncle’s whore and you’re a tramp for associating with them,” Hamlet sneered. His dark eyes didn’t reflect any light. They drank deep their fill of Ophelia’s anger and tears.

Something inside her brain clicked as her ribs began to constrict around her lungs. “This is a fucking distraction. You’re not slick, Hamlet.”

“Whatever for?” Hamlet shouted as he swung out his arms. “It’s not like you care that Horatio wants to fuck me against the changing room wall. What did you say? ‘It’s normal to have those types of feelings’ and all that? Why on earth should you give a damn? It’s not like you aren’t already conspiring to get me killed with my bitch of a mother.”

Ophelia was done. They were already going to break up, so what was the use of arguing. If Hamlet wanted her to be a monster, then a monster she would be. She unclasped her necklace, a little thing with a dark garnet and a silver star; a gift from happier times. She let it dangle in front of her. “Take it,” she commanded.

“No,” Hamlet said, his voice high and strained.

“I don’t want it anymore. Take. It.”

“Your brother never gave back his jewelry.”

“My brother sold it so my little cousin could keep going to her school. Not all of us were born in the lap of fucking luxury. You think he ogles your little trinkets every day? You fucked him up so bad and I’m an awful sister for dating you in the first place.” It took everything in Ophelia’s heart not to scream at him.

“I’m glad you finally figured out that you leech the life force of everyone around you. It’s only a matter of time before Horatio’s sucked dry too.”

“Take the goddamned necklace, Hamlet,” Ophelia said through her teeth.

“And what? You’ll choose kissing your brother’s ass over kissing mine?” Hamlet thought he was a good actor, and to some extent he really was. If Ophelia didn’t know him as well, she would have missed the twinges of fear the bubbled up from the abyss of his eyes. In them, lurked all the bioluminescent horrors that she could ever imagine and Ophelia knew exactly which one to poke.

“Every. Single. Time,” she hissed. “You’re a disgrace. You’re nothing but a shade of the man your father would have wanted you to be. He’d be ashamed of what you’ve done to Horatio. What you’ve done to me.”

“Do not talk about my father like that!” Hamlet screamed.

“Where’s his kindness? His compassion? His love of his fellow man?”

“You don’t know anything about him!”

“Never forget I  _ knew _ Letta, Hamlet,” Ophelia whispered. “And you are nothing like your father. You’re the spitting image of your bitch of a mother.”

“And you’re not?! You would have loved to see me be torn apart by those dogs. You and my mother can laugh over champagne and caviar while you starve teenagers to death and cannibalize their self-esteem.”

“Hamlet…”

“You can’t fix anything. Talk all you want about ‘inclusivity’ and ‘change’ but always know that you’re Elizabeth Bathory, bitch. There aren’t enough bathtubs full of blood that can make you live forever.”

“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough here.” Fortinbras walked in like a seraph, six winged, thousand eyes, and terrifying. “Give me the folder, Hamlet.” She held out her hand.

“What the hell is that?” He asked, pointing at Babadook.

“A dog. Give me the folder.” Fortinbras tried again. Her unmoving hand staying in front of Hamlet’s chest.

“Get it out of my fucking apartment.”

“No. Give me the folder.”

“Or what? I don’t have to listen you. I barely even know who you are,” Hamlet hissed as he tried to circle her.

“Give me the folder or I’ll break your pretty nose.” Fortinbras’ voice was still like glass and just as sharp. Her immovable strength was contrasted by Ophelia’s tears and shaking shoulders.

“Oh, I didn’t realize Ophelia hired guard dogs now. I hope you’re not under the delusion that you matter to her too,” Hamlet sneered. He made eye contact with Ophelia and a sick grin spread across his face. “I know what this is,” he said as he snapped his fingers together. He turned back towards Ophelia. “And you should never forget your sins are the same as mine.”

“One last time,” Fortinbras said. “Give me the folder.” Hamlet did and she grabbed his wrist.

“You bitch!” He gasped. Ophelia supposed it might have hurt. She tried to feel something, but she couldn’t. There were supposed to be feelings that went with this scene. There was nothing.

Silently, Fortinbras handed Ophelia to folder and gently took the necklace from her hand and forced it into Hamlet’s. Ophelia barely noticed as Fortinbras took her from the penhouse and back down to the lobby. The plush velvet of the chair felt foreign against her skin. She didn’t even realize she was shaking until Fortinbras held her hands still as she knelt in front of her.

“Ophelia, can you look at me?” Fortinbras asked. Her grey eyes blazed like . It hurt to look. Ophelia was so afraid. More familiar eyes appeared over her shoulder. Osric. That made everything so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m so sorry. Osric, he’s going to do something terrible. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please forgive me!”

“I’ll take care of him,” Osric whispered. How could the two of them be so calm? The world was crumbling around her like sandstone. “Please take care of yourself, Ms. Cortez.”

“Please call me Ophelia. Please, please, please.”

“Ophelia, please don’t go home alone tonight.” His voice was so sweet and kind. No one should be kind to her ever again. They should both leave her here until Hamlet had to go to class, finds her, and kills her.

“I was going to take her back to my place,” Fortinbras said, more to Ophelia than Osric. “I figured you could spend the night with me and we could snuggle with the dog and watch scary movies. Then tomorrow, you can go home for the weekend with your abuela. Then, on Tuesday I’ll take you to meet my team after practice. How does that sound?”

Ophelia couldn’t do much other than nod her head and bawl. She also needed to talk to Horatio. Who was she kidding? He would never want to talk to her ever again. She was alone. She was alone again. She hadn’t been alone since St. Catherine’s and it hurt so much. She was alone. She was alone. She was alone.

Ophelia felt a hand on her knee. She snapped her eyes open. Fortinbras’ grey eyes softened to moonlight. God, she really was like Hamlet. She felt the urge to vomit on the polished floor.

“I called us an uber,” Fortinbras explained. Babadook nuzzled Ophelia’s knee. She pet between the puppy’s ears and she tried to smile as her wagging tail hit her leg, but it came out as a sob.

Ophelia was sure they talked in the car and they must have picked out the movie together, but she didn’t really remember anything. All she could remember was the soft weight of Forinbras’ blankets, the touch of her hand, and her puppy snuggled between them.

* * *

Horatio stayed in the shower longer than he should have, letting the scalding water sweep away dredges of sticky arousal and mucky grief. With the gift of a few minutes’ solitude in the mostly soundproof room, he dug down into his chest and tore free the last of the burning sobs, intentionally quiet in the echoing bathroom, before setting about bringing his body back to a relative rightness. He used Hamlet’s lavender scented body soap to scrub the worst of the grease and salt from his skin and something he hoped was conditioner to untangle his hair. There was an abundance of combs neatly set out on the counter, each of slightly different lengths, styles, and, apparently, with different, mystical purposes. Horatio combed his hair with his fingers instead.

For the first time in months, Horatio checked himself in the mirror before leaving the bathroom, taking a long, silent inventory of his dull appearance. He sighed and bent his form into a proper display of false confidence.

Voices echoed from behind the closed door, hushed enough that Horatio couldn’t make out the individual words but undeniably harsh. He thought he heard Osric, which couldn’t be right. Osric never spoke to anyone like that. Horatio cracked open the door cautiously just in time to hear the speech crescendo.

“-I should have known she was just using me!” Hamlet screamed. “The snake!”

Horatio closed the door on instinct and stared at the monotone wood wash. He opened the door.

“Sir,” Osric said calmly as Hamlet snatched a pillow off the couch and threw it at the wall. It bounced off harmlessly but the coaster which followed did not. Osric took a step towards the seething Hamlet before his eyes skipped back to Horatio. “Mr. di Levanti.”

Hamlet whipped around on him, onyx eyes wild with anger, bottomless with grief, steeped in directionless accusation. Horatio took a step backwards into the wall as Hamlet advanced.  “Did she tell you?” Hamlet stabbed a finger into Horatio’s chest. “Did you know that they were conspiring?”

“Who?” Horatio asked slowly, letting the confusion leak out into his voice.

“Ophelia and my mother.” Hamlet hissed.

“Ophelia? She was here?” Horatio asked, glancing around the apartment as the pit of dread in his stomach exploded to a pain. He hesitated. “Did she…”

“Of course she did.” Hamlet snarled, teeth near to bared and hands balled into bloodless fists. “Even brought her new, muscle-bound girlfriend along just to-” he bit himself off and stared straight into Horatio’s soul. “Did you know?” He repeated, voice petering out from crazed rage to a bitter hurt. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Know what, Hamlet?” Horatio asked evenly. He placed a careful hand on Hamlet’s shoulder only to have it shoved off. Hamlet held the space where it had been as if Horatio’s palm were lined with needles. Horatio wiped his hand nervously against his pants. “What?” He asked again.

Hamlet searched his face for several long seconds. “Ophelia is going to be working for my mother’s magazine.” He finally said. When he spoke, his voice was utterly toneless, which unnerved Horatio more than any fit of screaming.

“She’s what?” Horatio asked. “Why would she…” But then again, it did make sense. Ophelia was a fashion designer and  _Elsinore_ was Europe’s leading fashion magazine. He’d talked to her about the magazine before, how much she’d love to sharpen their product line and expand their audience beyond ‘rich, unsatisfied stay-at-home moms.’ Hell, he’d even heard her mention possibly running the thing one day with her supreme skill and Hamlet’s support. Guess that second one wasn’t so relevant anymore though, considering Horatio had wrecked Ophelia’s support systems just as thoroughly as he’d wrecked the limited morality Hamlet may have possessed.

“She’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Hamlet blew past Horatio and slammed his fist down on the counter. A small clattering of metal followed him like a second strike of lightning. “I bet she didn’t even like me to begin with. She was probably just using me to get to my mother.” His voice rose an octave. “She probably planned to suck me dry, using me for sex and money while biding her time, waiting for that vampiric bitch to come visit her grieving, insane son!”

“Hamlet, stop. We both know that’s not true.” Horatio said sharply. A quick glance to Hamlet’s shaking shoulders, however, informed Horatio that Hamlet didn’t know at all. Horatio sighed. “This is the career opportunity of a lifetime for Ophelia. It’s horrible that she has to interact with your mother to seize it but she’s still our…” He was going to say  _ still our friend _ . Instead, he gulped back the wave of acid running along his tongue. “She’s a good person.” He tried again. “She wouldn’t do that to you.” Ophelia liked Hamlet, after all, no matter what he did. She liked…or had liked him more than perhaps anyone else. Maybe she had even loved him until Horatio had come along and thrown himself into their two-person tango.

“Oh, wouldn’t she?” Hamlet spat to the air. “’Cause she sure seemed  _eager_ to go out with my mother last night.”

“She was trying to be helpful. Get her out of the house for you.” Horatio said.

“Wake up, Horatio!” Hamlet screamed forcefully, standing on tiptoes to get into Horatio’s face. “Can’t you see what’s happening! She used me. She’s  _still_ using me, purposefully tormenting me with her talks of friendship and trust and all that shit! All women are poisonous leeches and I thought I could- I thought she was different, but I was wrong!” He suddenly appeared anguished beyond words.

“Sir,” Osric attempted to inject again.

“Why are you still here, Osric!?” Hamlet yelled without looking. “Collecting your latest report for  _ Mother _ ! Well, you can tell her she finally got what she wanted: a perfect replacement kid for me! And it’s a girl, too!” He caught Horatio’s shirt front and pushed him back into the bedroom. As Hamlet closed the door with a foot, he pressed close enough that Horatio could feel his thin breaths swirl around his cheeks. “I bet she did it to you, too.” Hamlet’s brow furrowed in fury.

“Hamlet-”

“Just think about it.” Hamlet said. “She was so okay with your feelings for me until  _after_ meeting my mother. Then she dumps me immediately?”

“She broke up with you because we kissed and I told her.” Horatio whispered, concern for Hamlet compounding messily with the building guilt. “Nothing more.”

“But she--”

“Nothing more.” Horatio forced his tone to one of firmness. “Ophelia wouldn’t do that.”

Hamlet stiffened. “So you’re siding with her then?” He hissed between a drawn sneer.

“There are no sides, Hamlet.” Horatio said in exasperation. “I know you’re upset but…” But what? Ophelia would never forgive Horatio for stealing Hamlet away, for lusting after him so hard he’d managed to make desire reality through will alone. And it would be a long while before she considered talking to Hamlet again, no doubt.

Maybe there were sides, after all. Maybe Horatio had already chosen one. He could have done this another way, repented for his mistake, agreed to stop talking to Hamlet, walked out as soon as Hamlet started cursing her name, and yet. Here he was. He’d told her he still wanted Hamlet despite how it hurt her and him both.

It was unnaturally easy to drown uncertainty in the depths of sin, for if one felt they were already damned, there was nothing to lose. And Horatio had just lost everything he’d known of friendship in the form of Ophelia. First her love, her support, her shining brightness. Then, he’d lose his fencing team because there’s no way Laertes would let him live after tonight. He’d even lost his play, because Ophelia wouldn’t agree to work with him and Hamlet. Or, even if she did, Fortinbras, who now knew everything through Horatio’s careless talk, wouldn’t. And so for the first time outside of his private moments and fantasies, Horatio cupped Hamlet’s anger-stained cheeks and kissed him. Hard. Even pulled taught, his lips were soft and, as Horatio ran his thumbs along Hamlet’s cheekbones, he felt them parted by the force of his push. He designed the kiss to last, to encompass every hint of passion he’d ever felt into a single pulse, strong enough to galvanize his grief into a calm if miserable acceptance. Hamlet sighed and relaxed into him. “I’m here.” Horatio said simply once given the space to speak again.

Hamlet gazed at him with curious surprise which melted into a small smattering of wetness around the edges of his eyes. “Yeah.” He agreed softly. “You are.”

Horatio offered him a weak smile and traced the shape of his cheek once more before pulling away. He held up a hand to Hamlet’s protest as he popped open the door.

When he emerged, quickly trailed by Hamlet, Osric eyed them both. “Sir.”

“Osric.” Hamlet answered roughly.

“Miss Ophelia appeared quite distraught when she left. I’m assuming you would like me to check in on her later?” Osric phrased it as a question though it was obviously a challenge.

Hamlet glared at Osric but Horatio cut over him. “Yes, please. Thank you so much, Osric.” He said gratefully.

“Of course.” Osric said promptly. “And your coat.” He added as he noted Horatio looking around the apartment for the place he’d thrown his garment. It was on the hook by the door.

Horatio blushed. “Thank you.”

He snagged the jacket, taking a moment to longingly study the new embroidering on the pocket, before flipping it over and digging through the pocket. He pulled out the cloth bundled there and crossed back to Hamlet. Gently, he took his hand and pressed the planchette into it.

He wasn’t sure if Hamlet understood the message but Horatio needed to solidify his resolve. He closed Hamlet’s fingers around the small wooden block, so dead and hollow in the evening’s light, so dangerous in the wrong grasp. He nodded to himself.

Hamlet stared at the planchette for a beat. “Horatio…”

“Mr. di Levanti.” Osric said. When Horatio glanced back, he was standing over the kitchen counter, holding Horatio’s phone aloft. “It appears you have a text.”

Horatio’s heart skipped a beat. He hoped selfishly it was a news alert or something.

_5:28 PM_

_@HoratiodiLevanti are you coming to practice? We’re all worried you died from overworking or something_

Horatio sighed in relief.

“What is it?” Hamlet asked nervously as he came to stand by Horatio’s elbow.

“Just the group chat for fencing.” He opened the chat and prepared to send back some bullshit excuse about being sick but hesitated. Laertes didn’t come to Friday practice. This might well be the last time he could fence freely. The thought made him ache.

“Hamlet,” Horatio asked slowly, “I have practice. Did you want to come with me then swing by my dorm afterwards to grab an overnight bag?”

“Overnight?” Hamlet asked.

“Or several nights.” Horatio confirmed.

Hamlet considered it for a long moment. “Sure. Why not?” He said with persuasive but not quite watertight nonchalance. He paused. “Can you pack for a week?”

Horatio nodded. “I’ll do a week and a half.”

* * *

Hamlet didn’t bother changing into real clothes before they left. He was too hooked on the assurance from Horatio that he would stay, and that he was going to stay. They got Osric to drop them off at the gym, presumably before he’d go check on Ophelia. Hamlet sat in the middle seat of the back for no reason other than to be pressed against Horatio’s side, completely glued to him as the adrenaline wore off and all that was left was the urge to shiver and cry.

He’d never been to the Columbia gym for longer than a few minutes, and it was back in the days of seducing Laertes. He’d stopped going after they broke up, mostly because he hated public gyms. Also because of his desire to avoid awkward confrontation. He trusted that Horatio wouldn’t bring him to a practice with Laertes, so at least he didn’t need to worry about that. He held onto Horatio’s coat as he changed into the funny white uniform he had to wear. It was humid and stuffy in the gym, but he was freezing. Reluctantly, he wrapped the coat around his shoulders, desperate for the meager additional warmth it granted him. He curled up in the corner, letting his exhaustion catch up to him. He wanted to go home. He didn’t like feeling alone, and even though Horatio was only twenty feet away it felt like miles.

“Hey,” Horatio said, pulling off the weird helmet-mask as he came over during the break. Like a child, Hamlet reached for him. He was relieved when Horatio sat beside him, letting him hold onto one of his arms while he drank some water. “You’re wearing my coat,” Horatio finally said.

“I’m cold,” Hamlet frowned. He felt warmer as Horatio ran a hand through his hair,

“Only another hour,” Horatio reassured. “Then we’ll go to the dorm so I can pack, and we can go back to your place.”

“Yeah,” Hamlet nodded, leaning his head against his shoulder. His wrists ached. His head ached. Everything ached. He just wanted to rest.

If he was being honest, he dosed through the second half of practice. The last of the adrenaline dissipated, and his shivering finally ebbed enough for him to rest. He woke when Horatio touched his shoulder, surprised to see him in his regular clothes rather than the fencing whites. “Time to go?” Hamlet asked.

“Yeah.” Horatio offered him a smile, helping him off the ground. Hamlet didn’t let him let go of his hand as they left the gym. “Do you want to call Osric, or should we take the subway?” He asked, as if the subway was a reasonable place to be. Hamlet took out his phone and texted Osric.

“He’ll be here in five,” Hamlet said, scowling at his phone. That meant Ophelia was either with Laertes or Fortinbras. He’d double lock the door tonight and tell Marcellus not to let anyone other than Horatio or Osric up to his room.

It was hard to talk to Horatio in public, and he considered both the car and the Juilliard dorm as public. So he didn’t. He clutched his hand as if it were a lifeline (which it was), but words would have to wait until it was safe for him to cry again. Luckily, Horatio seemed more than eager to ditch the weird pock-faced twins he lived with. Hamlet did, however, note the impressive desktop computer that one of them sat in front of. He’d always been envious of people with computer skills. The other one just watched them from his bed, seeming not to have any particular skills of interest.

Finally,  _ finally _ they made it home. Hamlet cleared out Ophelia’s drawer, which was pretty much empty, folding the stray clothes neatly and setting them aside. “This can be yours,” Hamlet said easily. Judging from Horatio’s face, he wasn’t expecting that kind of gesture. “Horatio, you’ve already spent most of the past week here.”

“I know,” he blushed. “I just...wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’ve known you for three years,” Hamlet said, taking off his sweater and jeans and curling up on the bed. He still had the planchette in his pocket. He took it out and placed it on the bedside table. Another day. He didn’t want to talk to his dad yet; not after what Ophelia had said. “You’ve been my best friend for three years. I’d have given you a drawer then if you asked.”  _If you asked_,  he thought. How different would life have been if Horatio had asked to kiss him that night instead of Ophelia? Or even as far back as Laertes? He would have. If he asked.

Horatio had his clothes out of his bag and into the drawer within minutes. For the first time in weeks, he had actual bedclothes to change into. He climbed under the covers and Hamlet realized he didn’t like the change; he wanted to feel Horatio’s skin. His soft sweater and pajama pants were in the way. He slid both his hands under his sweater as he held onto him. His skin was warm, and he needed to be closer.

“Can you take it off?” Hamlet said softly. He didn’t mind the sweater. It was soft and it smelled nice, but it wasn’t how he wanted to be warmed.

“It’s clean,” Horatio said with a twinge of nervousness.

“I know,” Hamlet sighed. “Please,” he whispered. He didn’t have the energy to command. Luckily it seemed he didn’t need to, since Horatio sat up and pulled it off. Hamlet coiled his arms around Horatio’s neck, pressing up against him. None of the guilt or fear mattered now; the deed was done. He was allowed to be drunk on him.

He let his hands explore his chest freely, vaguely aware of the hitch in Horatio’s breath as he ran his hands over as much of his skin as possible. He was perfect in an unaltered way. His muscles were strong under the finest layer of softness, and he wasn’t nearly as brawny as Laertes had been.

As his hands continued, Horatio’s started. Hamlet kissed his neck while Horatio kissed his forehead. Hamlet felt his hands run slowly over his back and sides before settling at his hips. Free now from the constraints of morals or guilt, Hamlet let his hands explore lower, brushing tentatively against the waistband of his soft cotton pants as he kissed Horatio’s chest. They both gasped as his fingers met the head of his cock, erect and hardly restrained by the confines of his pants. Hamlet pulled the waistband down a bit, and finding no resistance from Horatio, pulled them off the rest of the way. Horatio drew an audibly shaky breath.

“I just want to feel you,” Hamlet said quietly. He’d never seen Horatio naked before. The sight of him now was intoxicating; the blush on his cheeks; the way his hands were settled on his arm and stomach. Any impersonation of calm was gone now.

Hamlet wriggled free of his underwear, which was the only garment he had on. Fair was fair. Even with what seemed to him like an invitation, Horatio wouldn’t look below his eyes. “Horatio,” Hamlet said, running a hand through his curls. Horatio looked like it was taking all his willpower not to look or touch. He was making a valiant effort, but it was for nothing. Hamlet took one of his hands and guided it where he wanted it, seemingly breaking though Horatio’s last attempt at chastity. As he looked at his hand, Hamlet had to smile at the desire and shock in his friend’s eyes. He closed his eyes as Horatio cautiously touched him, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and kissing him on the mouth.

Horatio lay him gently on his back, pulling away from his lips as he placed kisses on his neck and chest. Hamlet moaned as he went lower, kissing the delicate skin of his stomach and hips. Part of him wanted to lean back on the pillows, close his eyes and let Horatio do anything to him, but the stronger part needed to see his face; to get a read on Horatio’s feelings. Unlike with Laertes, Horatio had no trace of confusion or fury in his face or movements; only lust and devotion. Hamlet reached for him as he kissed his cock, gently tangling his fingers in his hair.

“Horatio...” he sighed, torn between his desire to pull him back against his chest and the need for him to keep giving him head. He felt a swell of his own arousal as Horatio took one hand off his hip and used it to pump his own cock as he took Hamlet deeper in his mouth. “...Keep going,” Hamlet whispered, as if Horatio needed any instruction.

Hamlet stopped being able to think clearly after about ten minutes at Horatio’s chosen pace, grinding his hips and feeling blinded by pleasure with each pass of Horatio’s mouth against him. As he tugged his hair, Horatio let out a moan of his own, which was enough to send Hamlet over the edge, gasping and clutching at Horatio as he rode out each burst of his orgasm.

“Come back,” Hamlet said after he recovered, voice breathy and hot from pleasure.

“Give me a second,” Horatio panted, still working at his own cock.

“Let me,” Hamlet said gently, pressing a hand against his cheek. Horatio looked up at him, green gaze desperate and sensual.

Horatio finally moved so that the could switch places, and judging by the sight of him Hamlet wouldn’t need to work for long. He kissed Horatio’s stomach before moving down, running his hands over Horatio’s strong hips and thighs as he squirmed beneath his touch.

Horatio struggled for air breathlessly as Hamlet traced a finger along the full length of his heavy erection. The tip was slick with pre-cum from the work Horatio had already done, and the whole thing looked rather painful. He groaned as Hamlet touched him again, this time with more pressure. Horatio gripped the bedsheets tightly with one hand, the other one pressed against Hamlet’s cheek. Hamlet smirked slightly in satisfaction as his normally uptight friend came completely unwound. 

“Hamlet,” Horatio managed with difficulty, “Hamlet, I’m about to--”

Hamlet cut him off by taking as much of his cock as he could into his mouth, derailing Horatio’s words and turning them into a hungry moan. Both of Horatio’s hands held him now, one tangled in his hair and the other on his shoulder. Hamlet worked his mouth in time to the slight rocking of Horatio’s hips, which ramped up fairly quickly. Within minutes he felt every muscle in Horatio’s body tense as he drew a loud, sharp breath inwards, followed seconds later by the sudden burst of cum in Hamlet’s mouth. For once, he actually swallowed. It was really the only way they’d get through this without making a mess.

It took a comparatively long time for Horatio’s orgasm to run its course, and Hamlet kept his mouth on him until he relaxed and caught his breath. Horatio’s touch was gentle as he pulled away, and within seconds he was rewarded with a warm embrace and soft kisses on his cheeks and lips. Hamlet searched his movements and expression for any sign that Horatio, now satisfied, was no longer interested in him but came up miraculously empty.

Hamlet let them both bask in the high of their orgasms for exactly five minutes before he decided he needed to brush his teeth and wash his face. Cum wasn’t good for his skin, and even with the swallowing he’d managed to get some on his face. He was surprised, however, when Horatio followed him into the bathroom.

“I’m just washing my face,” Hamlet said quietly.

“I know,” Horatio gave him a soft smile. “That means we’re about to go to bed, though. And I want to brush my teeth.”

“People aren’t allowed in the bathroom while I get ready for bed,” Hamlet frowned slightly as he dried off.

“Do you want me to wait by the bed then?” Horatio asked easily.

“No,” Hamlet decided. “You can stay.” Horatio smoothed back his hair comfortingly as he started to brush his teeth. It was weird, having another person in the room for his complex moisturizing regimen, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

His nighttime cleanup routine took longer than the sex itself, but Horatio didn’t leave. He leaned against the counter, watching him do it as if it were performance art. Hamlet didn’t mind the audience; it was just odd for something so mundane to him to be of interest.

Eventually he felt clean enough to return to bed. Horatio put on his pajama pants, but Hamlet couldn’t be bothered. He snuggled up against Horatio’s chest, cold again and hungry for the sanctuary of his arms. Any of Horatio’s previous hesitation to touch and hold him seemed gone as he held him close against his skin.

“How are you feeling?” Horatio asked quietly, tracing his thumb over his shoulder blade.

“Fine,” Hamlet sighed. He felt great following the sex, but now the creeping insecurities were back. What if Horatio only wanted him for sex? That seemed unlikely, given the fact that he was Horatio and had gone down on him first. But still.

“You’re worried,” Horatio said as he held him a little tighter. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Hamlet lied. It wasn’t prudent to jump immediately into his laundry list of doubts, especially since Horatio probably already knew all of them. He relaxed a little as Horatio rubbed his shoulder. Judging from the quiet, he wasn’t going to be forced to talk.

Eventually they settled on their sides, and Hamlet was more than happy to to be tucked against him. Even though they were both still awake, they seemed to share the understanding that talking was hard and if Horatio wanted to make him feel better he’d have to do it by touch alone. He was good at it, too. He had his face buried in Hamlet’s hair and he gently stroked soothing circles against his stomach and the hollow curves of his waist.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Horatio finally broke the silence.

“You are helping,” Hamlet said quietly, pressing himself closer still against him.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Horatio asked gently, kissing the back of his neck.

“Anything?” Hamlet pushed. It was a dangerous thing to offer.

“Yeah,” Horatio said easily. “Anything.”

Hamlet paused, considering his words very seriously. There were lots of things he wanted. There was only one thing he wanted now. He curled into himself, bracing himself for the worst if it should come.

“Do you think you could love me?”


	14. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia gets a back massage. Horatio chooses his words. Hamlet calls the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for sticking with us! We hope you're enjoying it so far and we always love hearing from you!
> 
> Tigger Warnings: Descriptions of past injury, body image issues, and abandonment issues.

“Come on, man. You call yourself a horror fan and you’ve never seen _ The Conjuring _? It’s, like, a staple,” Fortinbras laughed as she popped the dvd into place. Her laugh was shorter now and not as free as before. It made Ophelia want to crawl into a ball and die. How could she drag basically a complete stranger into this clusterfuck? How selfish could she get? The feeling dragged deeper into the pit of her stomach. She should leave. This wasn’t right. What could Fortinbras possibly do that could help? She didn’t even know her.

Fortinbras threw herself on the side of the bed and Babadook flopped over into her lap. Somewhere along the line, she’d changed into athletic shorts and a crop top. Ophelia wished she had sleeping clothes, but she had no idea if she was going to need them. What did normal people do in times like these?

It was a trick question. Normal people didn’t have times like these. Normal people…Ophelia didn’t know. Nothing had ever been normal.

There were logical things to think about during the setup of a horror movie. She should call her brother and tell him everything. It would be terrible if he found out from Horatio or, god forbid, Hamlet. She should tell her father, but there wasn’t anything to do. Ophelia didn’t even really feel bad anymore. There was sick, crushing guilt about some words she said and the fear of inviting Fortinbras into her hellish life, but not being with Hamlet felt fine. 

It felt better than fine. At least Horatio was still her friend. She hammered the words into her thick skull. _ Horatio is my friend. Is. Is. Is. Is. Is. _ He wasn’t going away. She loved him. They were friends. There were three people on the face of the planet that she wouldn’t be able to cope with losing and he was on the list whether he liked it or not. They were friends. Best friends. _ They are friends_. She couldn’t let the words leave her head. If she thought in the present tense, they were real. They had to be real. Losing boyfriends was one thing, losing friends was another and Ophelia couldn’t do it. 

She felt the screams from the movie echo inside the cavity of her chest and fly their way into her brain. And Horatio chose Hamlet over her. Of course he would. It was the obvious and selfless choice, and Horatio was always selfless. Without Horatio, Hamlet had nothing, truly nothing, and that’s why Horatio had to choose him. Ophelia would be just fine. She knew. There were people who loved her. There were. But Horatio chose Hamlet and it was the right and her heart burned. 

“Hey what’s up?” Fortinbras asked, eyebrows pitched with worry. The expression made Ophelia want to vomit. She did this. She made her worry. “Too scary for you? We can put on cartoons if you want. Or nothing if you just want to sleep.”

“No, it’s fine,” Ophelia gasped. She didn’t mean to cry. Crying wouldn’t help. Crying made everything worse, all the time. 

“Nah, real life is scarier. Have a puppy in these trying times,” Fortinbras said as she placed Babadook in Ophelia’s arms. She seemed content to let Ophelia cry into her side. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” she asked.

Ophelia shook her head. “I’m not even upset about breaking up with Hamlet. It was going to happen. He didn’t even like me.” She dissolved into another fit of half sobs. 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Fortinbras said as she rubbed Ophelia’s shoulder before quickly pulling away. “Fun fact, it should be impossible for your muscles to be that tight. What do you do all day?”

“Uh, I draw and sew?” Not really the question Ophelia was expecting.

“Do you stretch, like, ever?” Fortinbras moved so she was entirely behind Ophelia. “I can fix your back if you want.” She traced a quick line across the top of Ophelia’s shoulders and down her spine. “More or less.”

Ophelia could feel her knees gently pressing into her side. “Uhh, sure, but only if you want to. You really don’t have to,” she stammered. 

“Oh, I want to. This is atrocious. Mute the TV and we can keep talking.”

It took Ophelia a second to figure out the remote, and she caught the last bits of a conversation about the main character’s clairvoyance. Funny how people like her and Horatio pretended they could interact with the dead. It was an interesting fascination, but one she didn’t entirely understand. She should get Horatio to help her if he would ever talk to her again. The thought tore another quiet sob from her throat. 

“So, if it’s not Hamlet, then what is it?” Fortinbras asked as worked the pad of her thumb into the muscle at the base of Ophelia’s neck. 

“I don’t want to lose Horatio too.” The words felt sticky coming out of her mouth. 

“You won’t.” Fortinbras said simply. “He’s sings your praises to the stars in rehearsal. The only reason you would lose him is if he thinks he’s already lost.”

“That’s the problem.” Ophelia gently pet the spot between Babadook’s ears. 

“Then it’s his problem,” Fortinbras shrugged. “If his love for you is so easily shaken, then I can get you some better friends.”

“He chose Hamlet.”

“And I choose you.” The way Fortinbras said it made it sound easy; like it was the natural progression of things. “I’m gonna be honest, I don’t really care what happens to Hamlet and Horatio. They’re not my friends. You are.”

“We’re friends?” Ophelia asked. 

“Yeah.” Fortinbras pressed her knuckles into a particularly tense point along Ophelia’s spine. She made a truly pathetic sound as she felt the knot crack. “And sometimes friends go a little too hard on their back massages. Sorry.” She smiled apologetically.

“No, no. That feels amazing. I can feel my back again,” Ophelia sighed. 

“Thank god, you need it,” Fortinbras laughed. A true laugh this time. “Anyway, blah, blah, Horatio will come around. Blah, blah, Hamlet. Have you considered joining a sports team?”

A genuine, surprised laugh came out of Ophelia’s mouth. “I played soccer in Mexico and softball once I went to boarding school.” She gestured dramatically to the state of her body. “I’m not exactly optimally designed to be fast or agile.” 

“First off, bullshit. That’s a myth perpetuated by insecure men to make you feel bad. You can train to be fast and agile regardless. Second, then find a sport where you have to pin people to the ground or something. Play rugby. What positions did you do?”

“Goalie and catcher.” It had been ages since Ophelia even thought about doing sports. 

“Oh sick, my pal Voltimand was a catcher for a while until the pitcher broke her hand. Oh! You could do roller derby. That shit’s vicious.”

“Woah, woah, woah, broke her hand?”

“Threw the ball too hard,” Fortinbras said as if that made any sort of logical sense. “Or hce Hockey! I’m sure we could find you a team somewhere.”

“I guess I had kinda missed it,” Ophelia admitted. “But I don’t think any sports team is gonna want an artsy senior as their rookie.”

“I’d take you on my team any day.”

“You don’t even know who I am,” Ophelia said playfully but it came out harsher than she intended. 

“Maybe, but I’d like to know more.” Ophelia could fell Fortinbras’ breath against her hair. Babadook rolled on her back and she rubbed her tummy. “Besides, I can just tell.”

“Just tell?” It was kinda a stupid question. Horatio said he could just tell and he was usually right. So why didn’t she really believe Fortinbras?

“Yeah, I’ve got a good read on people. Plus, it’s obvious that you care. I don’t know. Caring is really all it takes. Apathy is of the devil and all that.” Fortinbras found another knot and slowly tried to work it away. “You know, I have this gel that makes this easier. Want me to go for it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ophelia shrugged. As far as she was concerned, Fortinbras had given her an entirely new spine at this point. 

“Uhh, it might be easier if you take your shirt off,” she stammered nervously. “You totally don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know it’s weird and I--”

“It’s not all that weird. I went to an all girls catholic boarding school. A lot of my friends have seen my tits. As long as you’re okay with touching me,” Ophelia added quickly.

“I’ve been touching you this entire time?” Fortinbras asked. “You’re shirt’s thin. It’s not really that big of a difference. Why do you ask?”

“Uh, it’s a long insecurity. No need to go there.” Ophelia fought the urge to curl in on herself. 

“I have all night if you want someone to talk to,” Fortinbras offered.

“No one wants to hear me talk about that.”

“I do. That’s what friends do,” she explained slowly. “Did you ever talk about it with Horatio and Hamlet or your brother?” Ophelia’s silence was extremely telling. “I’ll make you a deal. You tell me about one of your insecurities and I’ll tell you about one of mine. Deal?”

“Deal,” Ophelia tentatively agreed. If she were being honest with herself, she didn’t think Fortinbras would get it. She had tried with Hamlet, but he had never been anything other than wasp thin and tortured into beauty and his traumas did not her trend her way. “I constantly feel bad for inflicting my body on other people,” she explained. 

“Why? You take care of yourself and you look nice. Are you still okay with taking off your shirt?” Fortinbras asked. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she reassured her as she helped Fortinbras untangle her hair from the neckhole. “I know I look nice, but as soon as someone touches me, that illusion goes away. People can look at me and think ‘oh, she’s not actually that fat’ then they touch me and I _ am _ and they’re disgusted because I’m disgusting. And I want so badly to be touched, but I don’t want people to be repulsed by me.”

Fortinbras placed both of her hands flat against Ophelia’s shoulder blades. “I’m touching you and I’m not repulsed.” Her tone of voice didn’t carry the rise and fall of someone trying to refute her statement. She said it like it was a fact that had always been true. Fortinbras warmed the gel in her hands and began gently working it into her skin. “If anyone tells you otherwise, call me and I’ll break their teeth. I don’t charge my friends my assassin’s fee.”

Ophelia felt like her skin was buzzing, and not in the uncomfortable buggy-crawly way. For once, she actually believed the good things she was being told. “Thanks for listening. People usually can’t tell it bothers me because, even though I feel terrible, I kinda act like I’m the best. Drives my brother up a wall sometimes.”

“How very Marina and the Diamonds of you,” Fortinbras joked. “At least you have it together enough to act like the best. It’d be worse for you if you acted miserable too. One day you won’t have to act anymore.”

“I don’t feel like I have to act now.”

“Good.” Fortinbras finally came out from behind Ophelia, the smile beaming across her face. Her grey eyes rang with warmth and fire. “Now, I suppose you’re wondering about my insecurity,” she laughed as she propped herself on her elbow so she could look at Ophelia. “It started a long long time ago and must conclude with me taking my shirt off too. You game?”

“I’m game,” Opjelia smiled.

“Way back when I still lived in Virginia, me and my moms would boat around the islands near the beach because I was really, _ really _ into all the nature shit. Like, I would catch jellyfish and we would go normal fishing and all that jazz. My mom works with native wildlife conservation, so we stopped on this island with feral hogs so she could count bird eggs. And they told me! ‘Maxime, stay on the boat. Maxime, it’s dangerous. Maxime--’ and blah, blah, blah. Totally in one ear and out the other.”

“Your name’s Maxime?” Ophelia asked. 

“Oh, yeah,” Fortinbras flashed a quick smile. “I forget that not everyone knows anymore.”

“And you prefer Fortinbras, right?”

“I...depends, honestly. Keep going with Fortinbras for now.” Fortinbras smiled and Ophelia was so full of joy. “Anyway, I left the boat and found just the cutest little piglets and then their mom found me and after having my guts stuffed back in my body, I have a truly grisly scar across my entire abdomen.”

“Jesus Christ! Were you okay?” Ophelia asked, she knew, like an idiot. 

“Uh no. Not really,” Fortinbras laughed. “I was really out of commission for a while and it was my own damn fault, you know. And now I have to live with the consequences forever.” She laughed again. “I don’t know how my teammates stand it when we work out. I don’t know how anyone stands it. It’s truly a horror show. I’ve never really had much of a girlfriend or anything like that because I’m kinda really self conscious about it. But hey!” She laughed. “I also act like I’m the best so we’ve got something in common.”

“Yeah, I guess we do,” Ophelia smiled. 

“Do you want to see it?” Fortinbras asked. 

“Only if you’re comfortable.”

She thought for a moment before starting to take off her shirt. “It helps, believe it or not.”

“I can believe it,” Ophelia said. “It helps when people touch me too. People I trust, at least. It helped with you.”

“Does that mean you trust me?” Fortinbras asked.

“I do,” Ophelia said as she looked at her stomach. It must have hurt so much. The darkened lines against her skin were jagged and rough, but they healed pretty well. The surgery scars were barely visible.

“Good, I trust you too,” Fortinbras said. She placed her hand on the soft part of Ophelia’s bicep. “Does this help?” she asked. 

“It does. What helps you?”

“Just that you look and aren’t afraid.”

Ophelia settled against Fortinbras’ shoulder so she could be touched and see her scars. They would fall asleep like this. She could already tell. “I could never be afraid of you,” she said as she let her eyes drift away to sleep.

* * *

He was fortunate that his muscles were loosened in a blissful post-sex haze or else Horatio would have turned to stone. As it was, his mind stopped short in a laughable imitation of a record scatch and a freeze frame. _ Yup, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up here. Let’s just say kids, hooking up with your emotionally vulnerable best friend following one of the worst nights of his life may have been a bad idea. Live and learn, right? _

Wrong. Horatio swallowed hard, even though he knew Hamlet could feel it vibrate against his back. He wanted to speak; to assure Hamlet against a building fog of saturated silence, but he had absolutely no idea what to say. Of course, Horatio had an abundance of answers. Empty things mostly. He knew that he did love Hamlet as a friend but that wasn’t the question. He also knew he loved the idea of loving Hamlet as something more than a simple companion. He knew that, despite the true despair of the situation, his current emotional high was enough to inspire feelings akin to total giddiness. Enough that he wanted to hold Hamlet now and tomorrow and every day forth into the great wilds of forever and forever. He knew how far he’d go to keep Hamlet safe but that was neither here nor there. Horatio was supposed to be the rational force, after all.

Most of all, Horatio knew he had exactly one shot to say the right thing. And it was a shot he couldn’t take.

“I don’t know.” Horatio admitted quietly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love like that before. But I’d like to try if you’d have me.” 

He was positive that wasn’t the answer Hamlet wanted but Horatio was unwilling to start lying to him now. It would be pointless anyway. He winced as Hamlet pushed away ever so slightly, breaking the easy molding between them. Even if the move was slight, Horatio swore he shivered at Hamlet’s absence.

Horatio wanted to speak but suddenly found he couldn’t trust his tongue. Instead, he reached a hand around and gently turned Hamlet to face him. Though he went willingly, the other man refused to meet his eyes. Hamlet must have been tired because he didn’t even attempt to disguise the nervousness plastered across his face. It looked a bit like he wanted to bolt, which only made Horatio more desperate to hold tight. He resisted the urge but didn’t pull away as he stroked Hamlet’s hair back. 

“I’m not leaving.” He said as calmly as he could and with utter certainty. “And I do love you, more than basically anyone. I’m just not sure it’s in quite the way you want yet.”

As Hamlet gazed at him, his deep eyes bottomed out into twin pools of inky thick betrayal. He swatted Horatio’s hand away and stood from the bed. Horatio watched uneasily as Hamlet tugged his bathrobe tight enough to cut off the circulation at his waist.

“Hamlet…” Horatio sat up in bed only to be pushed back as a mound of white collided with his face. He pulled the sweater off his head and stared at it.

“Put that on.” Hamlet ordered harshly from his place halfway across the room. 

Horatio complied, slipping the article on before sizing up Hamlet once more. A basin of cool dread opened up within his lower chest, dark and still and cold, as he noted the beginnings of angry tears forming in Hamlet’s eyes. 

Against his better judgement, Horatio crawled out from under the covers and sat at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry.” He said after a few seconds of Hamlet pointedly ignoring his existence.

Hamlet turned, narrowed eyes on him in an instant. “You got what you wanted.” He said, expression a colorful canvas of hurt, anger, and confused disgust. “You can take your shit and go now.” 

“Go?” Horatio asked. “Wait, what did I get?”

“Sex.” Hamlet spat the word as sweetly as poison. “Now fuck off.”

“No.” Horatio said on instinct. He bit his lip as Hamlet’s demeanor snapped cold and unyielding, a paler reflection of the control he seemed so apt to maintain, no matter the obstacle. Of course, that was before his father’s passing. Horatio drew a deep breath as the dread took solid form. “I’m sorry we had sex.” Horatio’s voice was weak as a newborn deer. “I didn’t realize you didn’t want to. God, I’m so, so sorry, Hamlet, I’m usually better at reading these kinds of things.”

“Oh no, I wanted to have sex.” Hamlet said in a crooked, breezy tone with a crooked, breezy smile which never reached past his mouth. 

“Then what…” Horatio stared at the way Hamlet kept a hand on his bathrobe cord. “Hamlet, I’d never use you for sex either.” Horatio said softly. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Hamlet choked out a laugh. “Sure could have convinced me.”

Horatio felt a twinge of fearful irritation swell beneath his lungs. “What have I done?” He repeated in a vague kind of challenge.

Hamlet stared him down. “You don’t love me.” He said. “You said--”

“I do love you.” Hamlet interjected with clear firmness. “More than anything.”

“But ‘not in the way I want.’” Hamlet repeated in a bitter caricature of Horatio’s earnestness.

“Yes. Not in an entirely romantic way.” Horatio composed his words as carefully as a scene in a play. “Like I said, I’d like to get there, but I think it will take time and effort. Love isn’t spontaneous. Or, at least, it’s never been that way to me. It builds and it grows. It takes tenderness and compromise. It’s hard but worth it. I only realized I had a crush on you a few months ago and you’ve been dating Ophelia the whole time, which has made my feelings for you incline more to guilt than anything else. Of course I want to love you like a lover but I’ll need to like you like a…” Horatio hesitated. “…like a boyfriend first.”

Hamlet expression twisted as he crossed his arms snugly against his chest. “But the sex.”

“Hamlet, think for a moment.” Horatio sighed. “Ophelia is…was…my best friend. Do you really think I’d throw away her trust for a quick fuck?”

“What about a long fuck?” Hamlet shot back and it sounded almost comical except for the fact he was glowering at Horatio the same way he did at his mother. Sticky coatings of guilt piled against the back of Horatio’s throat.

“I chose you.” Horatio nearly but didn’t quite beg. “Over everyone. Everything. Ophelia, Laertes, my fencing team, hell, even my play could well be in ruins because of this. Do you not understand how much I care about you? How much I’d give up, _ have _given up, for you?”

“Because you desire me.” Hamlet surmised icily.

“No,” Horatio corrected, “because I want _ you. _ Not your body, not your money, _ you _.” Hamlet clenched his jaw tighter. He’d heard this jabber before, Horatio concluded. Different day, different people, same claims. Horatio wondered if it was Ophelia who’d solidified this crazy notion for Hamlet and the world grew darker. After all, if Ophelia couldn’t convince Hamlet he was the sunlight flowing through the streets after a year of winter, what chance did measly old Horatio have?

“Here’s the truth.” Heedless of where his mind was running, Horatio let himself pour directly from the soul and hoped that Hamlet could accept his frankness as some kind of poetry. “I am devoted to you. I am devoted to loving you and being loved by you, as your best friend and closest ally. You are the person I trust most in the world. I am devoted to being by your side as long as you’ll let me stay there and I am devoted to bringing you comfort and peace and joy in any way I am able, even to the point of braving death.” Hamlet’s eyes skipped to the planchette as Horatio stood from the bed, giving physical assurance to the sudden burning in his mind. Hamlet didn’t step away as Horatio stopped in front of him. “However that means to you.” He let his voice soften a fraction. “Hamlet, if you never want to have sex with me again, I swear I still won’t leave you. I’ll even understand if you’re through with kissing me. I won’t abandon you.”

Hamlet took a hard breath as he scoured Horatio’s open face. “But you’re so horny all the time.” He finally said.

“I…” Horatio swore his blush must have been visible from outer space. “Thanks. Astute observation.” He cleared his throat and straightened his sweater. “I’d be fine. Masturbation exists.”

Hamlet nodded loosely. “And what about the money?” He asked with milder suspicion.

“When have I ever accepted money from you before?” Horatio asked, attempting a smile. “You know as well as I do how prideful I am about that shit. Your fortune is safe from my goldfingers.” 

Hamlet smiled fleetingly. “You’re devoted to me?” He repeated.

“And I won’t leave.” Horatio confirmed. He held out a hand to Hamlet hopefully. “Come back to sleep now?” 

* * *

The initial panic was awful. He kicked himself for asking the question. He was still kicking himself for the question. He was cold, and scared in a way he was never scared before with a partner. There were hints of it with Ophelia; the fear; but he was also never in so deep. Losing her hurt, but it wouldn’t kill him. 

He stared at the outstretched hand like a twice-beaten dog trying to decide whether or not the third time would be different. Horatio didn’t lie, he reminded himself. Horatio would probably sooner kill himself than lie about anything, given his immediate history of running halfway across the city on foot to admit his crimes to Ophelia. Anyways, if he was going to lie he would have skipped this nightmare and just said that he did love him. 

“I promise I’m not leaving,” Horatio urged gently. How long had they been standing there? Uncertain. Time wouldn’t make sense as long as cortisol kept oozing through his veins. 

“You do love me?” Hamlet said softly, glancing briefly up at Horatio’s eyes. “In other ways?” He felt like a kid. The last time he asked someone if they loved him he was sixteen. And that had been after a fight with Mother following New York Fashion Week. He’d asked his parents whether they still loved him even though he did a bad job on the runway. It was a mixed bag to say the least.

“I do,” Horatio reassured. His gaze was no longer confrontational, just resolved and determined. Hamlet hesitated another second before taking his hand. Compared to his own hands, Horatio’s were warm. 

He let himself be guided back to the bed. The fear wasn’t gone yet, and it was too hard to stay angry at Horatio in order to cancel it out. He considered going down the list with him about every single thing he was scared of when he said the word ‘boyfriend.’ There were so many things; actual past nightmares and horrors yet to come. Cautiously, he shed the bathrobe as he settled back under the covers. Once they were both tucked in, he turned and faced Horatio from a safe distance. 

“You’re my best friend,” Hamlet stated, more to himself than Horatio. 

“You’re my best friend,” Horatio repeated warmly. Hamlet didn’t flinch away as he reached out to pet his hair. 

“And you chose me?” Hamlet watched his face very closely, looking for any sign of conflict or contradiction. There was nothing but surety in his emerald eyes. “Even after all of this?” He added quietly. 

“I chose you,” Horatio closed some of the distance between them. “I want to love you, Hamlet. I am in love with the idea of being in love with you.” 

Hamlet liked this phrasing better than ‘I don’t love you like that yet,’ for sure. It made a little more sense and it put him a little less on edge. He moved the last few inches so that he was enveloped in Horatio’s arms. 

“I can be your boyfriend,” Hamlet said tensely. He wanted to wash the word off of his tongue. “But I need you never to call me your boyfriend. Except to maybe your mother.” 

“Okay?” Horatio shifted and stiffened slightly; he seemed stressed. 

“Because I am a bad at being a boyfriend,” Hamlet admitted quietly. “Everyone who ever called me their boyfriend ends up hating my guts.” 

“But,” Horatio paused, shifting awkwardly. “I’ll be your boyfriend?” 

Hamlet pulled away just enough so he could make eye contact with Horatio, who seemed to have switched emotional places with him sometime in the last five minutes. He looked unsure of himself and anxious, and he struggled to meet his gaze. “You’re my…” Hamlet hated the word boyfriend. It was the worst word in the whole English language. “You’re my boyfriend,” he finally said, successfully putting Horatio more at ease. “But I can’t emphasize enough how badly I want there to not be strict labels,” Hamlet said firmly. As more uncertainty painted Horatio’s face he pressed a hand to his cheek. “I’m choosing you, Horatio,” Hamlet said as sweetly as he could. “I won’t be disloyal to you.” 

Horatio thought it over but seemed sated. Hamlet relaxed beside him, sharing his pillow and stroking his cheek. He had very handsome features, especially considering his insecurity in his own appearance. His eyes, obviously, were the most striking feature, but his eyelashes were long and his eyebrows were naturally neat. His lips were full, and his slightly crooked grin was adorable when he was so inclined to show it.

“How do you like being touched?” Horatio asked, breaking the silence. 

“What?” Hamlet asked, taken aback. No one ever asked him that before. 

“I guess I meant how can I help you feel safe?” Horatio corrected himself. 

“I…” Hamlet had to pause. He could list nearly every single thing that made him feel unsafe, but safe was a different matter completely. “I don’t like surprises. I…” Hamlet had no idea how to do this. “I don’t like waking up alone. If you wake up before me, wake me up and tell me. I’ll probably go back to sleep,” he added. He fidgeted slightly with the sheets. “I like lots of touch. As much as possible, most of the time. Unless I’m panicking. Then I can’t stand it and I need to be talked to instead.” 

“What helps then?” Horatio adjusted his position on the bed, pulling him closer. Instead of messing with the sheet, Hamlet busied his hands by tracing shapes against Horatio’s chest. 

“I don’t know,” Hamlet sighed. “Ask Osric. It depends on what kind of panic attack it is.” 

“Okay,” Horatio nodded slightly. “What will help you feel better now?” 

“I like this,” Hamlet said easily. “You could kiss me more. And keep stroking my hair or touching my skin.” Horatio seemed to like those answers. He kissed him gently on the cheek first, then the lips. Despite his best efforts to keep the gesture sweet, there was a tinge of hunger in it. Hamlet invited him to deepen the kiss, which Horatio did earnestly. 

Hamlet pulled away as he felt things get dangerously close to escalating again. It was tempting, but it hit just a few too many buttons. Instead, Hamlet settled against Horatio, using the hollow between his chest and shoulder as a pillow. 

“Do you want me to shut off the light?” Horatio asked, kissing his forehead quickly. 

“Yeah,” Hamlet said sleepily. He slid his hands under Horatio’s sweater, comforted by the touch and warmth of his skin as he drifted off. 

To his relief, he woke up before Horatio. He woke up comfortable and warm, still held tight by Horatio even in his sleep. He smiled at him, brushing a light brown curl out of his eyes. It was nice to be allowed to touch him without feeling bad. He bent down and kissed his forehead as he slept. 

He did his abbreviated morning routine: Shower, abridged moisturizing routine, brushed his teeth and hair, and then put on underwear and his tourist sweater. He had a mission for the morning, and it didn’t require that he look presentable. 

He opened up his largely unused laptop, firing up Google. He needed to figure out at least a few facts about what happened to his father. Mother might not have wanted him to know anything about it, but even she couldn’t stop the rumour mill that was the internet. It only took a few searches to bring up some hard information, such as exactly which funeral service she used and the hospital that declared him deceased. The real horror so far was that he apparently died here in New York, not back in Paris where he was buried. Once again, not a jarring detail to a normal audience. But Hamlet hadn’t known he was in the city, and it threw out the last shred of him that still believed it was just an accident. It also added the layer of grief that, based on timing, his father probably hadn’t told him because it was meant to be a surprise for his birthday. 

Horatio made an appearance just around the time that Hamlet started googling things such as _ ‘how to find out whether or not someone was murdered,’ _ and _ ‘how can you steal autopsy reports from hospitals.’ _ Horatio sat beside him on the couch, freshly showered and smelling of his lavender soap. 

“What are you doing?” Horatio asked, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. 

“I’m googling things,” Hamlet said, slightly defensive as he used his body to try to block him from seeing the completely illegal webpage he had open. 

“What things?” Horatio asked, brow furrowing slightly. 

“I want to find out what was on my dad’s autopsy,” Hamlet finally admitted. It wasn’t like Horatio needed to be convinced he was murdered. 

“Oh?” Horatio raised an eyebrow. 

“Do you think if I call the hospital they’d just give it to me?” Hamlet asked seriously. “Or if I offered them money? I _ am _ related to him, so I feel like they should just give it to me.” 

“It’s like ten in the morning,” Horatio rubbed his eyes. “It’s too early for this stuff.” 

Hamlet shook his head. “No, it’s not,” he said, getting up to get his cellphone. “I’m going to call the hospital. Feel free to make breakfast for yourself.”

“But-” Horatio started. Hamlet waved him away and dialed the number on the screen. He started talking the second he heard someone pick up.

“Hello, I am looking for the doctor who performed the autopsy of Hamlet Kierkegaard Sr. This would have been back in August. Around the seventeenth,” he said quickly. 

“Let me pull up the file. Autopsy records are closed except for the next of kin of the deceased,” a tired voice said. “May I ask who is calling?” 

“I’m his son,” Hamlet said, pacing as he spoke. “I can come in and show you my ID if you want, or I can give you my social security number.” 

“Sir, unless you have permission from the court,” the person said. 

“What?!” Hamlet’s voice spiked a pitch. “The court? Why? I’m his son!”

“Sir, the law is that the reports go to the next of kin or the surviving spouse,” they said disinterestedly. “Since he has a living wife, they went to her. I’m sure she would-”

“No she wouldn’t. Tell me how I can get approval from the court,” Hamlet cut them off. 

“If you have a lawyer, contact them and they can help you make a case,” the other person sighed. “It probably won’t be too difficult, given that you’re his son.” 

“Okay,” Hamlet nodded. “Okay. Thank you.” He hung up, seething for a minute before heading into the kitchen, slamming his phone on the counter. Horatio looked up from the toast he was eating. 

“Bad call?” Horatio asked cautiously.

“I need Osric to come fix this,” Hamlet said huffily, sitting beside him. “They said I need a court order to see the report. Some state law or whatever.” 

“I’m sure Osric will be by to check on you in a bit,” Horatio reassured. Hamlet let himself come down a bit from the anger and disappointment. 

“What do you need to do today?” Hamlet asked. Horatio shrugged.

“I need to check some stuff with the play. Maybe email some people about rehearsals next week,” Horatio looked at him with concern. “Will you be okay rehearsing?” 

“I’ll be fine.” Hamlet didn’t mean to sound sharp, but it came out that way. “Can you edit your play while I watch something?” He asked more gently.

“Absolutely,” Horatio said easily. He finished eating and put the plate in the sink, grabbing his computer from his bag. He sat on the couch, and Hamlet curled up beside him. 

At least he could watch Moomin until Osric could give him legal advice.

  



	15. Haunted Objects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia visits her abuela. Horatio runs a rehearsal. Hamlet forgets a line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Thanks for reading! It means a ton to us and we always love getting your comments and kudos!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include: mentions of familial death and anxiety

“Good morning sunshine,” Fortinbras said as she pulled open the blinds. Ophelia threw her hands over her eyes and rolled onto her side right into Babadook. The light burned and she longed to stay under the blankets with Frotinbras for the rest of her foreseeable future. But alas, her dreams could not come true. 

“Have some mercy for the dying,” she groaned as she tried to allow her eyes to acclimate. Even Babadook had no such sympathy as she immediately started licking Ophelia’s face. Fortinbras tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle her laugher. Ophelia could listen to her laugh for ever and ever and ever.

“I’d consider it if it wern’t almost noon,” Fortinbras smirked. “I shouldn’t make fun of you too much though, I just woke up and _someone’s_ been up for hours,” she said as she sat on the edge of her bed and cuddled her puppy. “Speaking of which, if I remember correctly, your train doesn’t come for a couple hours. Wanna walk with me and Babadook?”

“Sure,” Ophelia decided. She should call her dad or Laertes and let them know what’s up, but the sooner she did that, the sooner she had to deal with their caring yet murderous protectiveness. It would be relatively easy to call Laertes off Horatio, since he didn’t really do anything wrong in the first place, and they both already liked each other. Her dad would be more difficult. For all she knew, he set the spy ring on them days ago. Then again, she hadn’t gotten any furious calls, so maybe not. It was so difficult to tell.

“By the way, some dude came by at night after you fell asleep.” Fortinbras was rooting around in her closet for something. Ophelia didn’t know what.

“Osric?” She asked.

“My man, I have no clue who the fuck that is,” Fortinbras laughed as she lightly tossed a pink duffle bag at Ophelia. It was empty, thankfully. “He brought you some clothes and lectured me about how to take care of people who are emotionally distressed.”

“Sounds like Osric.”

“Yeah, I got the distinct vibe that he’d exact bloody vengeance if I actually hurt Hamlet, so I think I’m gonna avoid that,” Fortinbras smirked.

“Yeah, I think that sounds like a good, life sustaining plan,” Ophelia walked over to the stack of her clothes. “What am I supposed to do with this?” She asked, holding up the duffel bag. 

“Pack? So you don’t have to go back to your place. You totally don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Fortinbras shrugged. “I thought it might help.”

“Oh, it definitely helps,” Opheia said quickly. “I didn’t really want to go back.”

Fortinbras didn’t really say much as she clipped the leash to Babadook’s collar. Ophelia swung the bag over her shoulder and tried to flash a quick smile. Something felt deeply wrong. It wasn’t something with Fortinbras or anything like that. She wasn’t sure anything was wrong at all. Nothing felt abnormal or out of place. Ophelia’s chest burned and constricted around her lungs, but it didn’t hurt. Not really. The feeling only intensified when she heard Fortinbras whisper in baby puppy speak to Babadook.

“I was gonna grab some coffee before taking her to the park,” Fortibras said over the thumping of the puppy’s tail. 

“Sounds like a plan!” Ophelia smiled as they walked into the city.

In truth, Ophelia loathed living in the city. The sheer amount of people was borderline sickening and everything was just generally gross. The only things she liked were the Met, her school, and he friends. Friend. Ophelia tried to shake the thought from her head, but it stuck like honey and blood.

If things really fell out here, she could always go back to Mexico City. There’s nothing in the entire world that would make her family happier, but then who knew what Laertes was going to do. Not to mention, there’s not much in the way of major fashion or costuming scenes there. She could run away to Europe and get in the fashion scene there. Elsinore would have been amazing, but she was SOL now that Hamlet hated her. What sort of mother hires her son’s ex? Not a very good one, but Gertrude never was. Ophelia was starting to face the facts that she might be irrevocably tied to this city forever.

“You good? It’s just coffee. I swear it’s not going to cause the apocalypse or something.” Fortinbras looked at her worriedly. That was right. Ophelia was supposed to be a competent human person and order her goddamned coffee like a grownup.

“Oh yeah, umm, sorry, I’m really out of it.” Ophelia stammered. “A small lavender coffee, please. With cream and sugar.”

They walked in silence until they reached the park and could let Babadook frolic freely among the few scraps of nature outside central park.

“So what’s up?” Fortinbras asked as she propped her elbow on her thigh. The bench was suddenly extremely uncomfortable, but Ophelia knew she couldn’t just run away.

Better to just be honest. “I’m thinking about what’s going to happen if everything goes to shit here,” she tried to explain. 

“And why would that happen?” she asked. For an Environmental Studies major, she sure knew how to talk like a therapist or something.

“Because I’ve lost both of my friends and there’s no way Elsinore will hire me now that I broke up with the owner’s son. I don’t have an edge anywhere other than here,” she gestured vaguely around herself. “And I want to get out.”

“You’ll figure it out. Most people don’t have ins where they want to. It’s not going to be a problem,” Fortinbras said easily. “Can I ask you a question you’re not going to like?”

“Shoot.”

“Were you dating Hamlet just to get an in for Elsinore?”

The insuring silence swirled through Ophelia’s eyes and nose like ribbons of acrid smoke. No, no, no. Fortinbras couldn’t think that too. Of all the people who were supposed to think she was a manipulative bitch, Fortinbras couldn’t be one of them. Horatio wasn’t supposed to be one of them too. And Hamlet. God, she had so royally fucked up.

“No. I really, truly like him. Liked him. I don’t know.” It was the honest truth.

“Then your problems probably aren’t actually with the state of your future, but with the state of your friends. If you talk to Horatio, I bet you’ll find that your fears go away,” Fortinbras said as easy as breathing.

“You believe me?” Ophelia asked, shocked.

“Of course I do. What’s there not to believe?”

“Most people don’t.”

“Most people don’t care enough to think anything at all.” Fortinbras gently rubbed Ophelia’s shoulder. “People aren’t really watching you. Life’s not a stage play and all of that.”

“I guess you’re right,” Ophelia conceded. There were far better things for most people to pay attention too, except Horatio and Hamlet. They were watching her. Watching and judging. And she missed them so much. Both of them. Hamlet was her friend first. She glanced at her phone for a second and caught the time. “I need to go,” she said. “I totally lost track of time.” She shot up before Fortinbras could say much of anything. “Thanks for walking with me! Tell Babadook I say goodbye!” And Ophelia took off towards the train station.

The train took way, way longer than Ophelia ever thought it was possible. Even the thought of her dad making this trip everyday made her a little bit sick. Or maybe that was the nerves. Either way, it was not pleasant, to say the very least. A short bus ride and a medium walk later, and she was standing at her front door. It was Saturday, so her dad should be home and he probably already knew she was here. He was watching, always watching.

“Ophelia!” He said as he threw open the door, almost hitting her in her face.

“Hey, Dad.” She wished she could muster the smile he wanted to see.

“Your abuelita is in the living room. She’s been talking about you all day. I’ve been making cochinita pibil tonight,” Polonius said as he brushed off the front of his apron. “I think there are still mangonada popsicles in the freezer.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she smiled as she went into the living room. She grabbed the brightly colored quilt off the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders before sitting at the foot of her abuela’s chair.

“_Hi Grandma, I’ve missed you so much_,” Ophelia said in Spanish as she gently pressed her forehead into the upholstery.

“_I’ve missed you too, Lamb. What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?_” Her abuela’s voice was high and light as she pet the top of Ophelia’s head.

“_Who said I was in any trouble?_” Ophelia laughed indignantly. “_If Dad said anything I swear--_”

“_Your dad didn’t have to say anything. I can see it in your eyes. Usually, you bound right in and tell me about school and your friends. Is it that Hamlet boy? I told you he’d be trouble. Men like that could never properly understand a woman,_” she huffed. “_Your grandfather was that type of man and look where that left him: Destitute, poor, and lacking the most brilliant grandaughter I will ever know._”

“_Is it that obvious?_” Ophelia muttered.

“_My darling, I can read you like a book._” She laughed and held out her hand for Ophelia to take. “_Tell me everything that’s happened._”

And Ophelia did.

“_It seems like you should be happy you’ve gotten rid of him, Lamb. Unhappy boyfriends lead to unhappy marriages and unhappy families. You have more than enough to worry about without him,”_ her abuelita said after a minute of consideration.

“_I’ve lost all my friends. I don’t have anyone anymore. I tried so hard and Horatio still chose Hamlet over me and everyone thinks I was using Hamlet to get a job from his mother. And I wasn’t and the only person who believes me is a girl I just met. She won’t even want me once she actually gets to know me. I’m just going to be alone and--_”

“_Ophelia Esmerelda Cortez, did my daughter teach you to be dependant on other people, especially other men?_” her abuela asked.

“_No, Grandma_,” Ophelia bowed her head as the blush of shame settled on her cheeks.

“_Did she raise you to doubt your skills and talents?_”

“_No, Grandma._”

“_Then why are you doubting now, Lamb_?” Her abuela laughed and started braiding a section of her hair. “_You’re mother, God bless her soul, would be heartbroken that you allow yourself to suffer like this. Do you remember who you are?_”

“_I am my mother’s daughter. I’m your granddaughter._” Ophelia turned to have the rest of her hair braided.

“_And you are Raramuri._” The pride in her abuela’s voice filled the entire room. “_Those are the only important things. Everything else can be made and remade a thousand times before you have it figured out. I remember a little girl who would stand up for her brother even when she was in trouble and a woman who stand up for her family and friends. You would do best to remember her too.”_

_“I know, Grandma. I’m sorry.”_

_“Sorry?” _Her abuela scoffed. “_There is no sorry. Fight the good fight like my mother and yours and you will not fail.”_

_“And you.”_

“_And me,” _she agreed after a moment of consideration. “_Lamb, I’ve been meaning to give you something since your mother died, but you were so young. Help me up?_”

Ophelia did and slowly led her abuela to the glass cupboard. Inside, were framed pictures and jewelry boxes that were most certainly older than her father. A glass marigold lay next to a picture of her mother on her wedding day. It had been eleven years and sometimes it hurt like it happened yesterday.

“_Your mother went the entire damn Dirty War without so much as a scratch and yet I never thought they would have come here and--_”

“_I miss her so much, Grandma,_” Ophelia said, wiping the tears from the corner of her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it. Being moved to Mexico City. Her father crying over the phone. A missing persons report. Frost on her body. She didn’t want to remember and somehow it never went away.

“_I miss her too. Every day,” _she answered. She pulled out an old key from under a book and opened the cabinet door. She used a smaller key to open an oaken box next to her mother’s portrait. Inside was a tiny, silver crucifix necklace. Her abuela turned it over in her hands several times before running her finger over its back. There were three sets of hand written initial etched in the thin metal. Even all these years later, Ophelia still remembered the stories her mom told.

“_Ask your father where his etching tools are,_” her abuela commanded. “_We’ll add your initials tonight, Lamb, and you can bear it_.” She kissed Ophelia’s forehead. “_And then we can talk about your friend problems.”_

And so they did, for about an hour and they continued after they finished dinner. Truly, it was nothing that she hadn’t heard before from Fortinbras or her brother, except for the added caveat that if Hamlet ever showed his face again she would tear his still beating heart out of his chest. It was the expected reaction from both her abuela and her dad. It was an impulse that would probably cool once Ophelia got her shit together and figured out how to keep her friends. Probably. She was less certain about her father.

That night, she lay on her bed and the weight of the cross on her chest was both comforting, mortally terrifying, and cold against her skin. It was like the ghosts of heroes fell across her heart. Her great grandmother, Paloma Aracely Hernandez smuggled ammo and arms during the revolution. Her grandmother, Suré Verónica Garcia helped and protested the rise of authoritarianism in Mexico. Her mother, Ariche Francisca Cortez fought with the students in the Dirty War and froze in the woods for her commitment. And she, Ophelia Esmerelda Cortez was worried about making it home on time for rehearsal tomorrow. 

* * *

For what it was worth, Saturday passed in relative ease with Horatio mostly sitting around emailing people and editing while Hamlet alternated between deep web searches and watching a cartoon which seemed to feature a fuzzy little hippo and his boyfriend, a weed hippie. Horatio was only half watching, of course, so he may have been off on the plotline. When Osric arrived, the cartoons went off and the paperwork came out as Hamlet and Osric set up at the mostly unused kitchen table to discuss court appeals and autopsy records. The entire process, which stretched well into the afternoon and evening, seemed to serve Hamlet well but made Horatio nervous for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain. By the time Hamlet crawled into bed that evening, he had already run through several layers of legal jargon with Horatio. From the confidence in his voice, Horatio couldn’t tell whether Hamlet understood everything he was talking about or absolutely nothing. In any case, Hamlet was once again pressed against him in the bed, tucked into the crook of his neck as he talked softly about legal custodianship, so Horatio was pacified. Or, well, mostly pacified. He wished he had some kind of computer or legal knowhow so that he could actually help Hamlet out with his investigation but as it stood, all he seemed good for was awkwardly lingering and offering Hamlet the occasional hug. Honestly, most of his skill lay in thouroughly fucking himself up via seance and Hamlet hadn’t asked him to do that. Yet. A small selfish part of him, the part that still felt blood beneath his fingernails, hoped he never would. A stronger, even more selfish part of him, however, desperately wanted Hamlet to ask so that he could set about proving his worth.

He hated to admit it but Hamlet’s reluctance against labels was...bothering him. More than he thought it would. More than was reasonable considering Hamlet had promised he was choosing him too. That he was his boyfriend in all but public title.

Most likely, the anxiety Horatio felt was propelled by rehearsal which, due to some conflict schedules, had been shifted from Monday evening to tomorrow morning. Which meant Hamlet, Ophelia, and Fortinbras all under one roof. In direct proximity.

“Are you alright?” Hamlet asked sleepily as Horatio unconsciously tightened his hold around him.

“Fine.” Horatio lied. He waited a moment to see if he would be questioned or if Hamlet would be too far encased in dreamland to notice. The latter won out as Hamlet’s breathing turned even and long. Though it was pointless in sleep, Horatio continued to gently rub the curve of Hamlet’s chest as he buried his head into his downy hair. Physical comfort was nice. Before the tumultuous events of this week, the only person Horatio had ever really cuddled with was Ophelia since the ‘six inch rule’ Horatio had imposed on himself kept him and Hamlet properly separated. And, even then, cuddling with Ophelia was a rare occurrence. She’d had Hamlet to do that with, after all.

Horatio missed Ophelia.

He was glad Hamlet wasn’t awake so that Horatio wouldn’t have to explain away the sudden neediness in his grasp. He was here and so was Hamlet, he convinced himself. Everything was okay. Even if Horatio lost everything, he’d have Hamlet.

He hoped.

The morning came sooner than Horatio would have liked and with twice the level of reality. Horatio was alone in the bed now but he could hear Hamlet moving around the bathroom. Throwing aside any hesitation he might have found, Horatio dragged himself out of bed and knocked. The sink shut off and, after a long pause, the door opened. Hamlet looked him over expectantly.

“Can I sit in the bathroom while you get ready?” Horatio asked.

Hamlet’s eyebrows pinched together but quickly smoothed. “Sure.” He said, stepping aside. Horatio sat down on the closed toilet lid and dedicated himself to memorizing the intricacies of Hamlet’s morning routine, filling spaces of silence by asking him about the purpose of various creams and the proper ways to dry your hair so it didn’t fuzz. He told himself he was helping to put Hamlet at ease for the day.

Osric drove them both to rehearsal. Hamlet spent most of the ride on his phone scrolling through some page or another which gave Horatio ample time to freak himself out in the process of trying to calm down.

Before entering the theater proper, Horatio stopped Hamlet short. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” Horatio asked evenly.

Hamlet appeared apprehensive for a moment, as if Horatio had just reminded him of what they were about to walk into, but the expression quickly smoothed. “I’m sure.” Hamlet said softly.

“Because we don’t have to.” Horatio said with a bit more measured intensity. “Really. I could cancel for today.”

“We could cancel.” Hamlet agreed, offering Horatio that very special look that he knew meant that he was out of character again. He needed to be calm. Collected. Better. “Do you want to cancel?” Hamlet prompted. He reached for Horatio’s hand and held it loosely as he ran nervous circles over the knuckles. Something in the pull of his breath told Horatio that he was hoping for a positive answer.

Horatio shut his eyes for a second and took a breath. “No, everyone’s already here.” He finally said. No point putting off the inevitable. He gave Hamlet’s hand a comforting squeeze and squared his shoulders before walking inside.

Straying from his norm, Hamlet remained practically plastered to Horatio as he set about gathering up ensemble members from the nooks and crannies of the theater. Both men took special care to avoid the scene shop in case Ophelia might be around and Horatio opted to send one of the sophomores around there to check for cast.

As the group gathered on the stage, Horatio gently inclined his head to Hamlet. “Are you going to join the cast?” He asked.

Hamlet stepped a bit closer to him. “What scenes are we running today?” He avoided Horatio’s question skillfully. “I think the fifth out of act two needed some blocking work.”

Naturally, he’d picked one of the three scenes in the play which didn’t include his character and Horatio felt a pinprick of guilt which nearly inclined him to move forward with that plan instead. Before he could act on protective instinct, however, he noted the slight glare aimed at him by Fortinbras, who stood to one side of the main group with her arms crossed. Horatio swallowed. “We’re running scene four first.” He said apologetically. It was a safer bet, Horatio figured, a scene with a large ensemble presence and a distinct lack of Imogen. Still, Hamlet appeared more put out than not as he reluctantly moved to the stage. Even as the underlyings melted away in favor of an actor’s facade, Horatio could spot hints of irritation and diluted fear in the rise of Hamlet’s shoulders.

Horatio cleared his throat to avoid choking on it. “Okay folks,” he smiled to the larger cast, “thank you all for coming out so early on a Sunday. We’re going to try and make this rehearsal a quick one so you all can get on with your days.”

“A quick rehearsal? With you?” The junior playing Maria, Queenie, teased, prompting a small bit of laughter.

Horatio rolled his eyes. “The only reason practice ran late last time is that most of you are behind on memorization. Which is why we’re going to devote a good portion of today to running lines without blocking.” He snagged his notebook off the chair and flipped it open. “So I want Act 1, Scene 3 to run just the script in that corner of the house while the rest of you use the stage to run Act 2, Scene 4.” He glanced to Hamlet and Queenie. “You guys good to take the lead while I take notes?”

Hamlet nodded while Queenie gave a thumbs up.

“Fantastic. Let’s hop to it then.” The sooner they finished, the sooner Horatio could take Hamlet and get out of here. He desperately wanted to run and, if the pace of his lines was any indication, Hamlet felt the intensity of a needed exit too. His pacing was unfortunately fast, so much so that on any other given day, Horatio would have demanded they start the scene over. This was Hamlet though and Horatio trusted that he would know what he was doing when it ran for real. No amount of bad days altered Hamlet’s learned and perfected abilities.

Horatio opened his notebook and took a quick inventory of the actors present before focusing in on two. He had just begun a quick critic of their pacing and inflection only to be interrupted as the seat beside him squealed.

“They’re all doing pretty good.” Fortinbras noted casually as she leaned to look over Horatio’s stiffened shoulder at his notes. “Well, minus Hamlet. Is he supposed to be talking a mile a minute like that?”

Horatio’s general nervousness sharpened to a painful point, digging straight into the space between his eyes. Fortinbras was supposed to be running lines with Scene 3, why was she-- It clicked. Scene 3 didn’t have Imogen in it. Neither did Scene 4. He’d been so worried about keeping Fortinbras away from Hamlet that he’d left her with nothing to do for the entirety of practice. Horatio really was falling apart if he’d made a blunder that obvious.

“He’s nervous, I think.” Horatio said instead of meeting her eyes. “Did you want to help me do markups on Maria?”

“Sure.” Fortinbras said. He expected her voice to be icy or angry or something equally harsh and biting but it was entirely passive. She accepted the notebook when he offered it. “How’s Hamlet doing, by the way?” She asked smoothly, pen setting to paper.

Horatio hesiated. He didn’t want to talk to Fortinbras. Mainly since he knew that she hated him and hated Hamlet more, but also because she was inevitably linked to Ophelia by the events of the fight and Horatio could _not_ risk forcing himself on her again. In any way.

Still, Fortinbras didn’t seem intent on leaving the issue alone and Horatio couldn’t physically leave.

“He’s bad.” Horatio admitted truthfully when he could no longer handle the weight of producing lies from the depths of freshly boiling guilt. “How’s Ophelia?”

“She’s bad.” Fortinbras answered with the exact same level of disconnected calm that Horatio offered. He imagined that if anyone overheard them, they’d think they were discussing dinner plans or something equally mundane. “She’s pretty torn up that about you.” Fortinbras added as she noted a line down.

Horatio nodded slowly. That made sense. He had effectively ruined her entire relationship in addition to any selebance of trust she’d had in him. He deserved to burn for that alone. “I...you can tell her I’m sorry.”

Fortinbras scoffed. “How about you tell her yourself?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” Horatio said quickly. He was losing hold of his professionalism at a truly alarming rate. “I- I completely...well, you know. You know what I did.” He’d betrayed her before and again and again and again, silently and out loud. He’d chosen Hamlet over Ophelia, one of his closest friends, and while he didn’t regret that decision, he knew in his soul that it was wrong. That he was selfish beyond words or reason or justification.

Fortinbras sat back in her chair easily, keeping her gaze to the stage where Hamlet had just fumbled a set of lines for the first time since sophomore year. “I don’t know, man.” Fortinbras said in a way which indicated that she was sparing him of her opinion. “But, from what I’ve heard, Ophelia doesn’t want to lose you as a friend.”

A beat. “She doesn’t?” Horatio asked with the barest hint of hope in his suddenly strangled voice.

“Nope.” Fortinbras said.

“She still…” Horatio struggled to put the pieces of the jigsaw into place within his mind. “I don’t...Do I not have to pick a side?”

For the first time in the conversation, Fortinbras really seemed to look at him. Horatio wished she wouldn’t. He was sure he looked more than a bit crazed in the eyes as sickening streaks of elation chased heavier fear around his system. “She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

“I thought I lost her.” Horatio said. The fear turned around and tore the elation to bloody shreds. He should have lost her. She should hate him. He deserved it. He deserved all of it, Hamlet’s doubt, Opehlia’s disgust, Fortinbras’ indifference. He couldn’t fix this, not when the issue in question was his very existence. Besides, he had Hamlet now. And that was all he had. That was all he needed.

He bit his tongue to prevent himself from continuing to spew his messy thoughts to a practical stranger. That wasn’t his style, after all. Horatio never trusted anyone with his own feelings unless he’d personally witnessed them have at least nine separate emotional breakdowns.

Fortinbras shrugged again, nonchalantly. “Like I said, might be worth asking her.” She passed back the notepad and stood then nodded towards the stage. “I’d go deal with that first though.” She said as Hamlet messed up another line. As if sensing Horatio’s returned attention, Hamlet looked back to him. Even across the relative divide of the pit, Horatio could see the moment Hamlet’s dark eyes noted Fortinbras and darkened further.

Horatio refused to flinch as Fortinbras patted his shoulder and departed. His eyes were reserved solely for Hamlet, after all, always for Hamlet, even while his brain worked around all the impossible, selfish ways he could keep both his friends.

* * *

There were right answers to most questions and the right answer when Horatio asked him if he was okay for rehearsal was ‘yes.’ And he _was_ okay for it, when Horatio was within arms reach and he didn’t have to ask questions like ‘Where’s Horatio?’ or ‘Am I about to get my nose broken by an angry lesbian?’ or the all consuming ‘If Laertes shows up will he actually kill me?’

It was exhausting, and made even worse by his lingering wooziness and general physical discomfort. All he had to do was run the scenes, he told himself. Horatio would come and watch him at some point and then at least he’d know he wasn’t alone. All he had to do was recite the lines and play a part that was basically (or even literally) written for him. It should be easy.

But he forgot the 1005th line of Act I. By forgot, he simply had to add an obvious break in the dialogue and actually use his brain to remember it, but still. It left an awkward pause which ruined the overall tension of the conversation and caused the Horatio’s careful foreshadowing to seem heavy-handed. It’s what happened when he tried to speedrun acting, he supposed. He slowed his pace by as much as he was willing.

It happened again with 1025th line. Only this time he actually, literally blanked. He’d caught the glint of Fortinbras’ stupid silver hair in the corner of his eye and the panic combined with the fatigue to completely jam his cognitive functions all together. By some stroke of divine mercy he managed to catch Horatio’s eye right after he stumbled. He knew the drill; he’d start over, inevitably get the line right, and then they’d take a break before moving on to Act II. He could probably keep it together until then.

“Okay, cut!” Horatio finally said after the second runthrough of the scene ended. “Everyone take a break before we do the next scene.” Hamlet had already jumped down from the stage and made it over to Horatio’s side before he made it past ‘take a break.’ It was like the brake and the gas were being held down at the same time: Fortinbras was within ten feet of him, but Horatio was within two.

“Horatio,” Hamlet whispered, keeping half of his focus trained on Fortinbras. He couldn’t really risk anything as unprofessional as being held by or kissing Horatio in front of her and the other actors, but he discretely grabbed hold of a belt loop on his jeans. He pulled it lightly, nodding ever so slightly towards the men’s dressing rooms. His skin was crawling worse than it had the first time he saw a house centipede.

“Okay,” Horatio said quietly as he fixed his eyes on Hamlet’s. “Excuse us, Fortinbras,” he said as they were already walking.

The second they were safely in the mostly empty changing room he grabbed Horatio by the hand and dragged him into the farthest corner. He shot daggers at the few other guys that were chatting and successfully drove them elsewhere, securing the room for just the two of them. Once alone, he collapsed into one of the chairs with his head in his hands.

“Hey,” Horatio said gently, running a hand through his hair. “What’s going on?”

“I fucked up the lines,” Hamlet wasn’t quite crying, just in case some idiots dared to enter the dressing room. He leaned into Horatio’s touch.

“You got them right the second time around,” Horatio reassured, though there was something off in his voice. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Hamlet said miserably, struggling a bit for breath. He felt dizzy and a little nauseated. For once he felt too hot. He lifted his head from his hands for long enough to roll up his sleeves a bit.

“No?” Horatio kept his voice even, cautiously wrapping an arm around him. Hamlet leaned his head against his shoulder and clung to him tightly.

“I feel sick,” Hamlet said weakly, pressing his face against Horatio’s neck. Even though he felt too hot, Horatio was the right kind of warm. “I don’t feel good.” Okay, he was crying now. Horatio held him carefully, which he was thankful for. There was a right amount of pressure and if Horatio deviated from it he might scream.

“Do you need to go home?” Horatio asked with equal parents concern and calm.

Hamlet shook his head. If he left, Fortinbras would win. “No.”

“Do you feel actually sick or nervous sick?” Horatio massaged his neck gently.

“I don’t know,” Hamlet said into his shirt.

“When was the last time Osric changed your bandages?” Horatio asked patiently. “Is it possible that you’re getting an infection?”

“He changed them this morning.” Hamlet didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to have everyone looking at him, just this once. He wanted to be closer to Horatio and be reassured beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one was going to corner or surprise him with fresh confrontation. He unwrapped his arms from Horatio’s neck, wrapping them around his waist instead and sliding his hands under his shirt.

“Hamlet, we shouldn’t-” Horatio’s voice hitched slightly.

“Just be quiet,” Hamlet snapped weakly. Horatio sighed, but didn’t push him away.

“What has you this upset?” Horatio said quietly after a pause.

“I feel bad,” Hamlet curled tighter around Horatio. “I don’t want to see Ophelia and my body feels shitty and tingly all over.”

“Like guilt?” Horatio kept running his fingers gently over the hair at the back of his head. It helped some of the tension leave his muscles.

“Yes,” Hamlet nodded.

“For fighting with her?” Horatio asked carefully. Hamlet shook his head weakly. “For the kiss?” He asked, a little less surely.

“I wanted you instead but I stayed with her,” Hamlet admitted. “Even before.”

“Before?” Hamlet couldn’t miss the slight flutter in Horatio’s voice. Hamlet forced himself to pull back just enough to see his face.

“I don’t ask people out,” Hamlet said flatly. “You never asked me out.”

“But--” Hamlet raised an eyebrow as Horatio prepared some sort of defense. Horatio came up empty. “Okay.” Hamlet returned to his position against Horatio’s chest.

Just as his heart rate was starting to drop down into the realm of normal, the dressing room door opened. One of the idiots from tech came through hesitantly.

“Hey, just wondering when-”

“Out!” Hamlet yelled, tightening his grip on Horatio.

“The other cast members are--”

“We’ll be there in five,” Horatio said quickly. The kid nodded and disappeared. Horatio sighed. “You really shouldn’t yell at the techies.”

“_They_ really shouldn’t enter places without knocking,” Hamlet huffed, more anxious than petty. “How much work does scene four need?” He asked more gently.

“Not too much today,” Horatio reassured. “I just want to hear the lines out loud.”

“And then can we go home and talk to my dad?” Hamlet asked. He felt Horatio stiffen.

“Uh, sure. Yeah,” Horatio said with a dose of uncertainty. He took a breath and composed himself. “Do you want me to stay closer to you while we run the scene?”

“Yes,” Hamlet sat up and fixed his hair and eyes.

Once back on stage, Hamlet told himself that he had to slow down and actually do the scene perfectly in the hopes that the other actors would also do it well enough on the first try that they’d only need to do minor fixes. Horatio opted for what Hamlet knew to be awful seating in terms of watching the actors, but it did keep him almost entirely in view. Still no sign of Ophelia, and Fortinbras was safely away in the audience. There was a chance Ophelia was there too, but luckily the lighting was such that he couldn’t see past the first row.

It took well over an hour for Horatio to decide the lines were okay. It wasn’t really Hamlet’s or the other actors’ faults, it was more that Horatio’s own persnicketiness about the exact wording and tone of the lines overtook him and forced all of them to stay there until he decided whether or not Denton should seem tense and whether the last line Maria says should be changed. It was nearly dinner time once Horatio let them go. Osric drove them home and prepared food for them both.

Hamlet was eager to get started with the ouija board once Osric left, almost to the point of not noticing the sudden withdrawnness and trepidation of Horatio. With a longing glance at the planchette, Hamlet decided it would be in his best interest to try to smooth out some of Horatio’s anxiety rather than demand that he do the seance anyways.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said gently, walking back to him and taking his hand, “it’s going to be okay. We already know that he was murdered, so we don’t need to ask him again.”

“I know,” Horatio said quietly, suddenly pale and uncharacteristically evasive.

“Then what’s wrong?” Hamlet asked, placing his other hand on Horatio’s hip.

“I don’t…” Horatio cut himself off. “I’m just nervous.”

“It’ll be quick,” Hamlet urged as he let his fingertips slide under Horatio’s belt. “Just a few questions.” He smiled slightly as he saw Horatio’s attention return to him, eyes glancing to where he gripped his belt. “I’ll blow you afterwards, if you want.” It was an easy enough way of incentivizing it. He’d screw Horatio anyways, but he did have a couple of important questions for his dad that he’d like to get answered.

“You promise not to ask for details about his death?” Horatio asked suspiciously.

“I’m going to ask if he knew who did it, but that’s it,” Hamlet reassured. Horatio looked away from his hand, making eye contact with him.

“Okay,” Horatio sighed. “Let’s go.”

Hamlet kissed him quickly before eagerly running to his bedroom and shoving the planchette into Horatio’s hands. The board was prepped on the coffee table, still stained a bit from his blood but otherwise unchanged. Cautiously, Horatio placed the planchette on the board, making sure both he and Hamlet had their hands on it. Hamlet grinned wildly as the planchette started moving, even without asking a question. Horatio, on the other hand, was already beginning to hyperventilate.

“I feel a lot of anxiety,” Horatio said stiffly.

“You’ll be fine,” Hamlet said quickly.

“Not mine,” Horatio said between breaths. “Your dad’s.”

“Oh,” Hamlet glanced to the board, making out what was being said.

A-R-E Y-O-U O-K? The board spelled out.

“I’m okay,” Hamlet said, still smiling. Horatio took a breath of relief.

“He feels better,” Horatio said.

“As him why he wouldn’t talk to me that night,” Hamlet demanded.

“Uh, Mr. Kierkegaard, why weren’t you able to talk to Hamlet?” Horatio asked nervously. The planchette started moving before he finished speaking.

T-R-I-E-D, C-O-U-L-D N-O-T B-E H-E-A-R-D

“Why couldn’t I hear him?” Hamlet asked miserably. “I was listening. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Horatio said quickly. He gasped as his hand started moving again.

N-O-T S-E-N-S-I-T-I-V-E

“What?” Hamlet frowned. “I’m plenty sensitive! Dad, what are you-”

“He means spiritually sensitive, I think. Right?” Horatio said. Their hands flew towards ‘YES’. “Does...does that mean I’m a medium?” Horatio asked quietly. Another yes. “Fuck…”

“Horatio, that’s a good thing,” Hamlet said excitedly. “That’s why you can talk to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to dead people,” Horatio said with a sigh. “No offense.”

“Okay, okay,” Hamlet said eagerly. “Ask him if he recognized the person who killed him.” Hamlet felt Horatio tense. “Last question for tonight, I promise.”

“Promise?” Horatio repeated, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Promise,” Hamlet said firmly. Horatio took a deep breath.

“Okay...Did you know who killed you?” He asked. Horatio’s breath took a sudden spike and he went pale; still not as bad as when he’d been possessed, but he looked rough as the planchette moved.

NO, S-H-O-T F-R-O-M A-B-O-V-E.

“Where were you?” Hamlet asked quickly.

“You said this was the last-” Horatio was cut off by the planchette moving again.

H-O-T-E-L. N-E-A-R O-F-F-I-C-E

“Okay,” Hamlet nodded. He knew where that was. “Okay,” he glance to Horatio, who was heaving for air and shaking slightly. “Dad, we’re gonna go now. I love you,” Hamlet said quickly before lifting his hands from the planchette and taking hold of Horatio’s instead. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s over now,” he said, getting up and sitting beside him on the floor.

“Yeah,” Horatio managed a few heavy breaths. “Okay.”

Hamlet kissed him on the cheek and then on the lips. Within seconds he felt Horatio relax, placing his hands on his waist. Hamlet opened his mouth slightly, experimentally inviting Horatio to try French kissing him. He knew they were okay once he felt Horatio take up the offer eagerly. Hamlet slid his hands down Horatio’s body, settling them at his belt buckle. Horatio had to pull away for air as he took it off.

“Hamlet, are you-” He panted, the anxiety in his voice thoroughly replaced by desire.

“Shh,” Hamlet held a finger to his lips. “Yes,” he affirmed. “Now take off your clothes.”


	16. Revenants Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia talks to her brother. Horatio has sex. Hamlet has a nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for sticking with us so far! We always love getting your comments and kudos!
> 
> Content Warnings for this chapter include: mentions of familial death

With all her effort, Ophelia was able to escape rehearsal unseen by both Hamlet and Horatio. Unfortunately, that came with the consequence of being unseen by Fortinbras too, but she wasn’t mortally afraid of calling her.

There were two people she was afraid to contact and she had to do it today. Fortunately, one of them would probably be too stressed out to answer her right away and that absolutely made her a bad person for relying on Horatio’s anxiety to relieve her own. He was significantly easier to deal with, though.

_Hey Horatio_, Ophelia typed. _Wanna meet up sometime soon? I have some questions about what you’re looking for from Imogen’s costume._

The thing was, it wasn’t a lie or a set up or anything. Ophelia genuinely had no idea what to do. It all depended on his image of the type of woman Imogen was and she just couldn’t get a read on it. Maybe if she chilled out for three seconds, she could think clearly.

But what was done was done and she didn’t have to put the energy into worrying bout it anymore. Of course, she still would, but she could channel the fear into calling Laertes to tell him what happened.

Ophelia held her breath as she dialed the number. She really, really wished it would go to voicemail, but alas, no such luck.

“Hey Ophelia, what’s up?” Laertes asked. He was breathing heavily, but otherwise sounded good. He probably just came back from running which meant he was happy which meant Ophelia was totally going to ruin it.

“I just need to tell you something,” she said.

“And?”

“And I broke up with Hamlet.” Ophelia bit her lip. There were two ways this could go and neither were good.

“That’s fantastic!” Laertes clapped his free hand against something. “What finally did it?”

Ophelia did not lie to her brother. Never. “There were two things.”

“Two things? Now it’s getting interesting,” Laertes mocked. “How bad and bloody? Was anyone left alive?”

“Hamlet made out with Horatio and then went on a misogynistic rant because I wanted to work for his mother.” Ophelia opened her eyes after not even realizing they were closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m not mad at Horatio. There was nothing he could do. You know how he’s felt about him. It’s only normal--”

“Listen, Ophelia. There’s always a choice. He should have said no.”

“He should have, but he didn’t, and I understand why and--”

“Would you have done it?” Laertes asked.

Of course not. Ophelia could never dream of it. It would hurt her friends so much, just like it did hurt her. “Maybe…”

“Ophelia!”

“No...I wouldn’t.”

“Exactly, because it's the wrong thing to do. We stand up for our friends. We don’t let them suffer for our gain. That’s not what we do,” Laertes huffed.

“That’s not what _we _do,” Ophelia emphasized. “I’m more upset because Horatio chose Hamlet and not me and I miss him, Laertes, I miss him so much.”

“Of course he would choose Hamlet!” Laertes wasn’t quite yelling, but he wasn’t speaking either. “He let Hamlet kiss him twice! If he were really a good friend, he’d realize that there is no choosing. There aren’t sides like you think there are. You and Hamlet aren’t locked in some inextricable duel. Hell Ophelia, I bet you could go back to being friends with him. He liked you a lot. Hamlet might be a wreck, but Horatio betrayed you.”

“He didn’t betray me. There was nothing to betray,” Ophelia tried to argue.

“Okay, Ophelia. If you really think so,” Laertes breathed. “I’m here to support you, not police your friend choices. What do you want me to do about him?”

“Just...make sure he acts normal and keeps going to practice and everything. Don’t be terrifying.”

“My general demeanor is terrifying. I can’t promise that.”

That made Ophelia laugh. “Please, you’re basically a teddy bear. I’m sure you can mange not instilling abject terror in your enemies just for a little bit.”

“I promise nothing,” Laertes laughed too. That was good. It meant he wasn’t as furious that he let on. “Speaking of nothing, what’s with you and Fortinbras?”

“What? How do you even know that?” Ophelia was shocked. Either she told him stuff and she totally forgot about it, but that didn’t make sense at all. Polonius might have a eye on her if he heard that something was wrong, but it wasn’t like him to report back to Laertes of all people.

“I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.” Ophelia could hear him smirk through the phone. “A literature friend saw you go back to her apartment. You don’t usually casually do that, so I take it you’re over Hamlet.”

“I’m over our lost relationship but not our friendship,” Ophelia muttered.

“And you’re not disputing my implications about you and Fortinbras, so, new girlfriend?” he asked.

“Just a friend.” Ophelia said calmly.

“Future girlfriend?” Laertes asked.

“Let me focus on the friend part first,” she laughed.

“But potentially?”

“She is just a friend, Lae. Drop it,” Ophelia commanded.

“Okay, okay,” his laughter rang over the phone. “What else have you been up to. Ms. Socialite. Been invited to any raging parties lately?”

“I went home this weekend. I talked a lot with Abuela.” Ophelia began to toy nervously with the necklace. She felt the etchings on the pad of her thumb. It felt way heavier than it was supposed to.

“How’s she doing?”

“Really good. She gave me Mom’s necklace.”

There was a piercing moment of silence before Laertes tried to speak. “Oh,” he stuttered. “Ophie, are you alright?”

“You know, I have no idea. It just feels heavy.” Ophelia could feel the tears coming, but she didn’t want to cry again and again and again. “Lae, I miss Mom.”

“I know, I know.” Laertes tried to sooth her has she bawled her eyes out.

* * *

The flush of blood appeared to be the most efficient way to push ghostly phantom pains out of Horatio’s body. He tipped his head back just enough to let Hamlet press a line of thin kisses against the underside of his chin and down to the base of his neck while he let his hands roam beneath Hamlet’s shirt, running lightly over the firmness of his back and the faint outline of his ribs. They worked in silence, taking the time to explore each other’s bodies without the press of overbearing guilt settled between them. Or, at least, that’s what Horatio was intent on doing. He refused to feel bad for this. Maybe later, definitely later, but not now.

Horatio broke the quiet as Hamlet pressed the flat of his hand against his stomach and dragged it downwards. A set of lithe fingers fiddled with the top button of Horatio’s jeans, the belt already having been discarded somewhere between the coffee table and the bed. Horatio stopped them as a slight unease surfaced from beneath swelling desire.

Hamlet looked to him in confusion and frustration. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

Horatio paused to collect his thoughts into a pile. The task took nearly half a minute. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Horatio finally managed to compose.

“Yes.” Hamlet said shortly, reaching again for Horatio’s waistband. Once more, Horatio stopped him, this time holding his hands to ensure their containment.

“I want to make sure.” He said firmly, keeping his gaze locked on Hamlet’s as he brought their joined hands close to his chest. The abrupt absence of steady touch was already sending waves of fitfulness through his body and it would seem Hamlet felt the same if his hungry gaze could be believed.

Horatio sang for it, the way Hamlet’s piercing stare had grown hazy with lust, splintered opal melted to a dark pools, warm, wide, and unfathomably deep. He wanted so badly to kiss him again but held off until Hamlet spoke.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Hamlet said with a roll of his eyes. “Why else would I be trying to remove your pants?”

Horatio smiled at the playfulness in his tone, layered beneath a healthy dose of dry sarcasm. All so wonderfully Hamlet. He kissed him on the bridge of the nose before catching his lips. “In that case…” Horatio trailed off nervously but pushed forward. His breath ghosted Hamlet's cheeks for their closeness. “Can I try something? Other than a blowjob?”

“Depends.” Hamlet raised an eyebrow as a hint of worry squirmed into his tone. “What did you want to try?”

“Well, I was wondering...could we take it a step further?” Horatio watched Hamlet’s face intently for any sign of discomfort. “Like anal, specifically. And bearing in mind that I won’t be offended whatsoever if the answer is no.”

Hamlet blinked at him for a beat before his mouth twisted into an odd smile, half amused, half incredulous. “Really? That’s what you wanted to ask?”

“Well, I mean,” Horatio was sure he was blushing, “I needed to be sure.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, you have my consent.” Hamlet grapsed Horatio’s waistband and undid his top button and zipper before Horatio even had time to protest. “I’ll even write it down if that would help you. After.” He tugged Horatio’s jeans down, forcing him to either accommodate or be pulled halfway off the bed. Horatio chose to help Hamlet pull the jeans off the rest of the way.

“Great,” Horatio muttered, “okay.” It still didn’t feel like quite enough but it looked like Hamlet was going to go ahead with or without Horatio so he figured it was best just to dive in. Horatio sat forward on the bed as Hamlet threw his pants aside and, in one fluid motion, slipped the other man’s shirt off. He kissed him deeply, pleased when Hamlet easily returned the motion. With the balance between them flipped, Horatio was able to make quick work of relieving Hamlet of his undergarments as he pressed him back into the soft bed. As Horatio moved from Hamlet’s lips to his chest and lower, peppering kisses in his wake, he pulled his own underwear off with one hand, only made aware of the weight of his arousal by its release.

He paused as he reached Hamlet’s erect cock, taking a second to feel Hamlet shiver beneath his hands as he gently kissed the head. He released one of Hamlet’s hips and began to pump his own dick.

“Lube?” He asked between the breathlessness.

“Drawer.” Hamlet answered impatiently.

Horatio located the bottle quickly enough, driven both by the cold of being away from Hamlet and the building pressure in his core. Once returned to the bed, he leaned forward to kiss Hamlet once more as the other twined a hand into his hair. Horatio broke the kiss with a hitch of breath when their cocks rubbed against one another. He wasn’t sure if the drips of precum he felt were his or Hamlet’s, but in any case it made it much easier to grind without the friction. He felt a burst of pride and happiness when Hamlet groaned loudly into his lips in response. The other man didn’t seem much inclined to talking right now, which suited Horatio just fine.

With perhaps a bit too much roughness, Horatio let his hands run from their place on Hamlet’s back to the hollows of his hips. With a glance to Hamlet’s now visibly eager gaze, Horatio hitched his slender hips up. He uncapped the ridiculously expensive looking lube bottle and rubbed a fair amount onto one finger.

Horatio could focus on nothing but the wonderful sounds Hamlet made as one finger became two which ended in three. Certain paces and twists made him louder while others transformed pants to lower moaning. Still others seemed to paralyze him, neck sweetly bared as Horatio’s pace turned punishing and he was absolutely determined to memorize each and every combination. Though Hamlet was doing most of the work keeping his hips parted from the sheets, Horatio let one hand clenched on his side so that he could feel the shape of them; the maddening softness of Hamlet’s skin.

When it became clear that Horatio couldn’t keeping his blood even partially in his brain anymore, he shifted positions. He had to admit, the rich people lube did feel very smooth as he lay a heavy helping across his dick. He gripped Hamlet’s cock in one hand as Hamlet draped his legs over Horatio’s shoulders lavishly.

“Are you almost ready yet?” Hamlet asked, voice half-obscured in pants and Horatio grinned.

“How hard do you like it?” He asked.

Hamlet smirked back at him. “How hard can you give it?”

Horatio offered Hamlet’s cock a few solid pumps before penetrating, not quite to the hilt but fairly close. He courted a brief moment of concern when Hamlet gasped but the sound soon melted away into a fresh moan. Reinvigorated by Hamlet’s pleasure, Horatio attempted to set a reasonable pace but ended up with something a touch too fast and more than a touch too desperate as his body coursed electric with ecstacy. The pressure at his core sang to a pleasing pain with each thrust as Horatio watched Hamlet’s face contort in a similar wave. Horatio groaned into his climax as the heat along his skin finally consolidated and spilled out. In his hand, Hamlet was quick to follow.

Horatio held still, letting himself ride out the effects of another comparatively long orgasm before pulling out. He laid beside Hamlet and immediately found the other plastered against him. Not that he would ever complain. Horatio wrapped Hamlet into his arms and buried his face into his hair.

“Are you doing okay?” Horatio asked, voice partially muffled.

“Hm.” Hamlet hummed in agreement. Horatio waited expectantly for something to go wrong, for Hamlet to push him away or pull back or shut him out but, if anything, Hamlet seemed to move closer. Horatio allowed himself to relax as the gathered energy of the evening and night finally dissipated from his system. He let his heavy eyes droop.

For a few blissful moments everything was perfectly still.

Then Hamlet stood.

Horatio could have cried for the sudden removal of his personal heater but instead he forced himself to sit up. “Bathroom?” He asked.

“Yup.” Hamlet said. “I need to clean up. It takes work to stay this beautiful.”

“Not with eyes like yours.” Horatio said sleepily.

Hamlet smiled and kissed Horatio on the cheek before moving off to the bathroom. With supreme effort, Horatio pulled himself up to follow. The apartment was completely dark. What time was it? Horatio groped blindly for his phone off the bedside table only to remember that it had been discarded with his pants.

It was about 10:30. Realistically too early to be in bed but then again, nothing on earth was more important than being with Hamlet. Now and forever.

Horatio was about to place the phone properly by the bed before a notification caught his eye.

This time, when his breath picked up, pleasure had nothing to do with it.

_9:14 PM_

_Hey Horatio_, _wanna meet up sometime soon? I have some questions about what you’re looking for from Imogen’s costume._

It was from Ophelia. Ophelia had reached out to him. All those emotions lost to Horartio in the midst of Hamlet’s undivided presence returned in a violent, messy rush until he felt hollowed out entirely. He forced a breath. Ophelia wanted to talk to him and while he was almost positive that it was about more than the costume, it did mean, at the very least, that she could at stand his presence. That was a good thing. He thought. Maybe Fortinbras had been right and Ophelia really did still want to be his friend? Or maybe she wanted to chew him out properly for ruining her relationship. Either that or she really did just want to talk costumes.

Horatio clenched his jaw. He was so in the wrong here, he might as well be Benedict Arnold. Whatever Ophelia wanted, he would do it.

_10:33 PM_

_Sure, we can meet up. Does tomorrow around six-thirty work for you? You pick location._

He flipped the phone over before Ophelia could answer. He’d look again in the morning. He’d get up early too and put together an entire folder on Imogen’s character design to make sure he was completely prepared for anything Ophelia might throw at him.

That was all he could do now.

With significantly less tiredness than before, Horatio plucked his pjs out of the drawer (his drawer) and followed Hamlet to the bathroom.

* * *

Walking to the bathroom was difficult. Not because anything hurt; Horatio had been plenty gentle compared to the nights Hamlet spent with Laertes. No, it was hard to walk because his body felt too loose and high on the endorphins of having the first truly exemplary orgasm he’d had since he and Ophelia had started fighting. Which was well over a month ago. All he wanted to do was lay with Horatio until he had the energy to do it again, but there really was only so long he could tolerate the feeling of cum on his skin.

Horatio joined him in the bathroom a few minutes later, and to Hamlet’s dismay he was already dressed in his pajamas. He placed his hands on his hips as Hamlet finished wiping the last of the mess off of his stomach, and Hamlet already felt a fresh wave of arousal. He turned around so he was facing Horatio, who kissed him on the forehead and then on his lips. Whatever satisfaction Hamlet had felt from earlier was wearing off as he realized he was still completely desperate for more kisses and more familiarity with Horatio’s body.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Hamlet said breathlessly, pulling away as Horatio ran his hands down his sides. “I don’t take well to being left hot and bothered.”

Horatio kissed him again on the lips, sliding a hand between his legs. Hamlet shuddered at the contact, still sensitive from before. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” Horatio said quietly as he pulled away, kissing his neck. Already he could feel the hypersensitivity giving way to fresh desire for relief as he cupped Horatio’s cheeks.

“Then you better take me back to bed,” Hamlet breathed as Horatio teased his arousal, “and you better lose that stupid sweater.”

Horatio seemed confident enough now to take genuine pleasure in observing and testing all the ways to make him squirm, but it also meant that he was a frighteningly quick learner in regards to figuring out exactly how to press all the right buttons to make Hamlet’s back arch with tension and need. However dumb Horatio’s tongue could be with regards to words, it was sharp when it came to getting him close to the edge in an embarrassingly short period of time. At least this time he’d thought to give Horatio a tissue ahead of time, hopefully saving them from having to clean up again. Judging from the growing intensity of Horatio’s hand against his own cock he’d be needing it soon.

All it took was a few minutes of Horatio’s hand pumping him while the tip of his tongue slid hard against the sensitive tip of his shaft and Hamlet found himself in rapture again, the orgasm made more intense by watching Horatio’s face melt into the ecstasy of his own second orgasm as he swallowed. Hamlet gasped for air as Horatio released his cock, kissing his hips and inner thighs as he finished riding out his own pleasure, which seemed thankfully to have been caught in the tissue. Hamlet tried for grace as he pulled Horatio back up to him, but in all honesty it was just clumsy desperation. He could taste himself on Horatio’s lips when he kissed him, and he decided he liked it.

“And you made fun of me for being horny all the time,” Horatio said breathlessly as they pulled apart. Hamlet wrapped his arms around him, snuggling into his bare chest.

“I never made any claims of chastity,” Hamlet smirked against his skin, kissing his clavicle. He never wanted Horatio to wear clothes again, he thought as he sank into him. He frowned as Horatio failed to wrap his arms around him. “Why aren’t you holding me?” Hamlet whined, propping himself up on one arm. It still hurt to do that, but he needed to see Horatio’s face. He just looked confused.

“Aren’t you getting up to go clean yourself?” Horatio asked.

“Clearly not,” Hamlet said, relaxing a bit. Horatio snaked his arms around his waist, holding him close as he settled back on the pillow beside him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as Horatio folded him safely against his chest, rubbing gentle circles into his shoulder with one hand. Hamlet closed his eyes and draped an arm over his side.

“Are you comfortable?” Horatio asked gently, kissing the edge of his ear.

“Yes,” Hamlet said happily as he pressed closer still to Horatio, twining their legs together. He felt fantastic. He was going on two consecutive nights of safe, deep sleep and he felt unbelievably content and comfortable in Horatio’s arms. “I’m going to sleep now,” he announced. Horatio kissed him on the shoulder.

“Okay,” Horatio whispered. “Goodnight.”

Hamlet tightened his grip on him as he started to drift off. “Goodnight.”

Comfort, for Hamlet, meant sleep. And sleep meant dreams. It was a matter of time, really. Even though his dreams were rarer and harder to remember on his antidepressants, there were occasional breakthroughs. This was one of them.

He was walking down the street on the Upper East Side. The city was empty, which is how he knew it was a dream. He saw his father a block down, near the New York office for Elsinore. He seemed not to see him, even though he was walking towards him.

“Dad!” Hamlet yelled, waving at him. Still nothing. “Dad!” He yelled louder. Up above him and across the street he heard something. A window opening. The city was silent, so the soft sound could have been as loud as bad microphone feedback. Seconds later there was a silenced gunshot, and his father crumpled.

“Dad!” Hamlet shrieked. His eyes flashed open. His bedroom. It was dark, but he wasn’t alone. His skin crawled and he felt a sinking cold settle in his stomach as he made eye contact with the gaunt spectre of his father that stood in the corner, somehow more wrong than he’d been the last time. Hamlet could feel the adrenaline seeping through his veins, and he was breathing hard as if he were running. “Dad?” He asked quietly. He wanted to reach for Horatio but found that his body wouldn’t move.

“Hamlet,” the ghost said hollowly. He looked like his father, more or less, but the voice that came from the figure was raspy and torn; wet as if the speaker had pneumonia or some other respiratory illness. Hamlet found he couldn’t speak. Something shifted, and the figure looked more like his father as he remembered him.

“I’m here,” Hamlet said in an airy whisper. This had to still be a dream, he decided, even if it felt real.

“You need to hurry,” his father’s voice said, desperately as he’d never heard him. “I can’t stay.”

“You can’t…?” The words rolled over him. “Why? Why not?” Hamlet said in fresh panic. “Where would you go?”  
“I’m not me,” his father said miserably, moving a step closer. Hamlet could see clearly now the black congealed blood on his chest. “Hamlet, I won’t stay. I’m losing me.”

“No!” Hamlet felt himself scream but Horatio didn’t move. He glanced to the bed and Horatio wasn’t there. “Dad, you can’t go! Why?!”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” his father said wistfully. As Hamlet’s breath heaved he saw it steam; the temperature in the room dropped suddenly and he shivered.

“I don’t understand,” Hamlet said mournfully. It was like being told he had to lose him all over again. “Why?”

“Betrayal,” his father’s voice twisted, decaying back into the raspiness and something shifted in his eyes. They weren’t his anymore. The soothing blue faded to gray, and what meager color lingered in his image paled. Somehow the room was darker.

“Who?” Hamlet shuddered. He would have pulled the covers higher over his chest if he could move. “I need help. I don’t know what to do,” he stammered as fear bled through him. What he was looking at was no longer his father; the eyes were black. The freezing air stung his skin. He cringed as the spectre reached for him, cheek burning under the frost of his touch. It hurt so badly that Hamlet screamed.

“Wake up!” His father’s voice tore through one last time. “Hamlet!”

Hamlet sucked in a sharp breath of air as his eyes flew open. His chest was heaving and he found himself in a cold sweat, shoulders gripped tightly by Horatio. Hamlet trembled violently as he reached for him. Finding he could move again, he clung to him as if his life depended on it. “Horatio,” he said, locked in a state of shock. His face hurt and he was freezing.

“It’s okay,” Horatio whispered, cradling him and brushing his damp hair off his forehead. “It’s alright. Bad dream,” he said calmly, kissing his neck. He stiffened as he bent to kiss his cheek. “Did I do that to your face?” Horatio asked.

“Do what?” Hamlet asked between breaths. He pulled away and watched concern turn to fear in his friend’s eyes. Horatio pulled his hand away, quick as a reflex as he brushed a finger over his cheek.

“What happened?” Horatio clutched his fingers as if they hurt, and his face contorted into panic. “Hamlet, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Hamlet said quickly. He was panicking because Horatio was panicking. He touched his cheek and felt nothing but a stinging pain as he got up and ran to the bathroom, reaching blindly for the lights.

His heart bottomed out as he saw a line of four dark bruises on his cheek, as if he’d been struck hard. When he looked closely he could see the handprint. He had to clutch the counter to keep from passing out. “Horatio-” he managed to say as his vision got spotty. He was already by the door, catching him quickly around the waist.

“What happened?” Horatio asked again, recovering at least a facade of calm. Through the window Hamlet could see the first twinges of morning as they sat back on the bed.

“It--” Hamlet struggled as his blood pressure returned to normal. “My dad. I think. Maybe not. Something--it touched my face.”

“It felt cold,” Horatio said as his stroked his hair.

“It was freezing,” Hamlet leaned against his shoulder for support. “It felt like frostbite.”

“And it still hurts?” Horatio’s voiced was as protective as it was scared.

“It feels like I got slapped by ice,” Hamlet said as he clutched Horatio’s arm. “What time is it?” He asked. If it was after six he’d stay awake, he decided.

“Five,” Horatio said as he glanced at his phone. “Do you want to get up?”

Hamlet shook his head, gently pushing Horatio back down onto the mattress and pulling the covers over them both. He lay on top of him, desperate to insure that there was no way he’d see anything except him. “I don’t know. Hold onto me for a bit?” Hamlet asked weakly, still shivering even under the covers and safely wrapped in Horatio’s arms.

“Of course,” Horatio said with frightened warmth. Hamlet finally got a good breath in as he massaged his back soothingly.

“Can you do some research with me later?” Hamlet asked quietly.

“On what?” Horatio said cautiously.

“I need to know more about ghosts,” Hamlet said anxiously, “and whether they can go bad.” He felt Horatio’s hold on him tighten slightly.

“Just research?” Horatio asked.

“Just research,” Hamlet said seriously. He didn’t want whatever hurt him anywhere near Horatio, and he had no idea whether it would come back if they tried to summon his dad.

“Okay,” Horatio sighed, kissing his hair. “Are you okay?” He asked.

“No,” Hamlet admitted, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“It’ll be okay,” Horatio kissed him again. “I’ll keep you safe.” Hamlet wanted desperately to believe him. Somehow, though, he knew that there were exactly two ways this would go: Either he would figure out who betrayed his father, or the ghost was going to become something much, much less familiar.


	17. Research Methods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia doesn't believe in ghosts. Horatio does. Hamlet gets distracted by sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Sorry for the spotty updates this week, we've been super busy with college and all that kind of stuff! But better late than never! Thanks for sticking with us and as always, we love reading your comments! 
> 
> Surprisingly, there are no content warnings for this chapter! Enjoy!

The clock flashed 6pm as Ophelia paced back and forth across the costume shop. A million thoughts went through her head. Was this a public enough place so Horatio didn’t feel cornered? Was it private enough that he didn’t feel cornered? Would he even show? That was a stupid question. Of course he would show. Horatio always showed. He would be too guilty or nervous or whatever not to.

Ophelia rifled through her sketches and a couple swatches of fabric and some dresses from the costume shop. She had stress prepared for basically any possibility Horatio could possibly throw at her. Well, except for the increasingly probable possibility that he would tell her he never wanted to see her again and that he was kicking her off the show. So, in short, she was completely unprepared.

She was holding up a couple of vials of sequins to the light to see which was shiniest when she head a soft knock on her door. “Come in!” She said as she tried to adopt the most casual demeanor as possible, which, of course, made it seem like she was possessed by a demon.

“Hey, Ophelia,” Horatio stammered as he stood awkwardly in the doorway clutching a thick folder to his chest.

“Hey,” Ophelia said, adopting a very unconvincing air of confidence. “I’ve got some sketches for Imogen, but I need to to know if she’s like, old school or new school or what? I know this is late, but shit’s happened and I’ve got Maria and Denton figured out, and I’ve gathered stuff for the ensemble.”

“Uh, both. Like, she goes from old school to new school. You know, character development.” Horatio kept standing in the doorway.

“You know you can come in, right?” Ophelia said as she picked out a few of her favorite sketches. So everything was relevant, which helped not at all. How many costume changes could she possibly fit into a show? Theoretically one per scene, but that would be an awful lot of undressing and redressing Fortinbras. Come to think of it, that didn’t sound like a bad idea at all. Interesting. That was a problem to deal with later.

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Horatio stammered. “You have...stuff.”

Ophelia spread the sketches out on the table with their corresponding fabric swatches. “So, if this is a strict linear transformation, we go from essentially Edwardian chic to full flapper, I suppose with the hight of that transformation during the masked dance scene? What do you think?”

“That sounds good,” Horatio said absently. “The peacock is really nice.”

“Yeah,” Ophelia drew out the last vowel. “That’s the one I’m not sure if I can actually, you know, finish in time, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Ophelia gave him a very thorough once over for the first time since he entered her shop. He looked...nice. No outward signs of immediate exhaustion or harm or anything like that, yet he still looked _bad_, like someone was going to eat his family in the middle of the night.

“What’s up with you?” she asked, trying to keep it casual as she searched through her files of dress patterns.

“Oh nothing, yeah, yeah nothing,” he giggled and looked like he was about to cry.

“Yeah, well. You’re not good at lying, so how are you actually doing?” Ophelia tried to give him what she thought was a good natured smile. “Is it Hamlet?”

“I...um...yeah, it is.” Horatio took a seat on a stool and looked abjectly miserable.

Ophelia’s face dropped. “What did he do? Is he okay?” she asked seriously. “I can call Osric.” If Hamlet had more ghost freakouts then it was something they had to deal with right away before it kept getting worse and worse and worse.

“No, no, it’s,” Horatio held his head in his hands as he spoke with one breath, “Hamlet’s doing great and he’s been really happy and I’ve had sex with him three times in the past two days and I stole a pen and didn’t apologize and you’re never going to love me again because I ruined your relationship and our friendship and you’re never going to forgive me and I miss you so much and, and, and--”

“Okay,” Ophelia said as she sat beside him. “Let’s break that down slowly. Hamlet’s happy...because you two have been having a lot of sex.” Horatio nodded and looked like he was about to burst into tears. “That’s a good thing, right? That kid hasn’t been happy since, you know…” Horatio nodded again. “Okay, second, you stole a pen? When?”

“2005.”

“Horatio, I think you need to let that one go, for your own health and wellbeing,” Ophelia laughed as she pat his shoulder. “I promise, it’s going to be okay.” She waited for Horatio to say something else, but when he didn’t, she continued. “You think I hate you?”

“How could you not? I ruined everything and it’s my dream come true. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, Ophelia,” he cried into her shoulder.

“Horatio, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not mad. I’m so glad you’re happy with Hamlet. I’ve missed you so much.” Ophelia hugged him. “Now, can we please stop avoiding each other and go back to being friends?”

“You still want to be my friend?” Horatio sniffled.

“Of course I still want to be your friend! You’re my best friend! If you think I’m going to let Hamlet being a bitch ruin that, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“So I really don’t have to choose?”

“No,” Ophelia laughed as she wrapped Horatio in a hug. “You never had to choose.” They were quiet for a few moments, but Horatio’s overwhelming aura of stress didn’t dissipate in the slightest. “Okay, what else is bothering you?”

“Ghosts.” Horatio said simply, trying to wipe away his tears.

“Ghosts? _The_ ghost or just ghosts as a concept? Because, I swear, if Hamlet did something else dangerous again--”

“It hurt him, Ophelia.” Horatio’s voice was muffled by her shirtsleeve.

“I’m sorry, what?” That wasn’t right. Ghosts don’t exist, and even if they did, they’re not like...matter or whatever. “Are you sure he didn’t just do something and regret it and didn’t want to scare you?”

“It’s real! Unless you know a way to burn a handprint into your face.” Horatio’s voice pitched into panic as Ophelia tried to breath slowly and hold him until he calmed down. It was not very effective.

“Okay, okay, that sounds pretty bad. Did he tell you about what happened?” She asked, rubbing his back.

“No, but it was the ghost. His dad did that to him. His _dad_!” Horatio sobbed quietly in her arms.

“Okay. We can handle this, right? Right. I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it,” Ophelia explained, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.

“No,” Horatio said.

“No?”

“We can’t do it. He’ll hurt me, too. He’ll hurt you. We can’t. We don’t know how bad it’ll get or if it’ll get more mad at Hamlet. We don’t know. We have no idea. We--” Horatio was hyperventilating and there was nothing Ophelia could do to bring him back to earth. 

“Okay, we’re going to breathe,” she said as she took a deep breath. Horatio tried to follow, but didn’t really do a good job of it. At least he was trying. “What if we do some reading and--”

“I’ve already done the reading. It’s going to kill us all.”

Ophelia was stunned into silence for a moment. “Horatio, I don’t think that’s a rational fear.”

“When has anything been rational? They’re ghosts!” He squeezed her arm before letting go. “What would it even help?”

“We could gather intel. Figure out what’s wrong. And then the ghost doesn’t have to hurt Hamlet again. We can do a lot of things. If it’s really evil--”

Horatio interrupted her. “Are you wearing a crucifix?”

Ophelia clasped her hands over her chest and tried to look normal. “Uhhh...no.”

“It’s right there. I can see it. I didn’t know you were...Catholic?” He gave her a once over and she was very uncomfortable. At least the abject terror had given way to confusion, which was better.

“I’m not. My family is...it’s a long story. Listen so are we going to--”

“You weren’t wearing it before.”

“Focus, man, ghost or no?” Ophelia asked. She was more than willing to talk about whatever the hell was going on with her emotions to someone who cared, but not when it was a distraction technique from what they needed to have figured out. She softened her voice. “I really will talk to you about it later. It’s just weird. And a lot.”

Horatio nodded in understanding. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do it again. I can’t just put you in danger like that. I don’t. I don’t even know how it works.”

“It’s okay, just...think about it, maybe? Maybe it could give us some closure.” Ophelia caught the time out of the corner of her eye. “I have to go help my dad with some stuff, but text me when you decide what you’re going to do?” She smiled and gave him another hug. “I promise I’ll still be your friend no matter what. Regardless, you should come hang out with me tomorrow. I need to tell you about my new friend.”

* * *

Horatio hasn’t been lying to Ophelia. He had done the research.

Unsurprisingly, Hamlet hadn’t gone back to sleep after his dream or encounter or whatever the nightmarish bruise on his cheek denoted so Horatio hadn’t either. He’d alternated between stroking Hamlet’s back and running fingers through his hair as the other lay across him, bundled tightly against his chest. It had taken almost an hour before Hamlet had relaxed enough to start feeling like a person again instead of a stiff block of wood against Horatio and it was a relief when Hamlet finally allowed his eyes to close over their own darting.

All the while Hamlet clung to him, Horatio spent watching the room. It was completely pointless to do so, of course. The ghost had never physically revealed itself to Horatio and even if it did, he had no idea what he was intending to do. It wasn’t like you could duel immaterial spirits, after all. The bruise on Hamlet’s cheek was even starker in the daylight and the sight made his chest ache with fear. He’d held Hamlet more flush against his chest.

Any idea he’d had of going to class today had been thoroughly wrecked by ghostly happenings and anxiety over meeting Ophelia.

Anxiety, Horatio reflected, which had been apparently unfounded. Or, well, founded but in a different, equally unpleasant way. Where the idea of meeting with Ophelia, facing her in the light of his most grievous betrayal and hearing in precise detail damage he’d created, was an unbearable weight on his heart, the idea of exposing Ophelia to the horrors of ghostly vengeance was deplorable in the extreme.

Horatio was already so afraid of even leaving Hamlet alone…

He shook his head and wrapped his jacket tighter about him, suddenly hyper aware of the chill in the air. Nothing had gone wrong. Not since this morning, not with ghosts or Hamlet or anyone. Ophelia was still, by her own words, his friend and although Horatio continued to feel like the vile manipulator of her misery, she honestly didn’t even seem too upset about losing Hamlet. Maybe this breakup had been a long time coming. And then there was Hamlet, who seemed fairly contented to be with Horatio for now. Whether he deserved it or not, Horatio had been given a second chance, one he was determined not to mess up or squander away. If he didn’t have to choose sides, if he really could be part of both his friends’ lives, he was determined to be there in any way possible

He checked his phone for the time.

Determination which, right now, meant more ghost research.

Horatio let himself back into the apartment, scooping up the notebook he’d left by the door, and smoothing any remaining nerves from his figure as he sat on the floor beside the couch. Hamlet was exactly where he left him, sitting on the couch with his laptop, quick eyes scanning and skipping along the page.

Horatio pulled open the notepad and woke up his computer to an in-depth article about Ancient Greek wandering spirits. He leaned against Hamlet’s leg and sighed when the other reach down to absently pet his hair a few times. Horatio wished he could sit next to Hamlet but the necessity of being able to spread his work out trumped comfort. The penthouse was very quickly beginning to look like a minefield of loose-leaf and stray library books.

“So,” Hamlet broke the quiet as Horatio jotted down another line on burials, “how was Ophelia?” The inflection of his voice was a morose mix of half-focus and resentment.

“She’s okay.” Horatio said, delicately. “She, uh…she still wants to be friends.”

Hamlet snorted bitterly. “Well, of course she does.” He said, his typing growing more forceful with each word. “I’m the one who’s corrupted you, remember?”

Horatio raised an eyebrow as Hamlet pointedly ignored him, opting instead to glare at his screen. A coil of white hot discomfort coiled through Horatio’s chest though he didn’t show it. This wasn’t a betrayal towards Hamlet, he reminded himself. He hadn’t lied. He was here with Hamlet and he wasn’t leaving.

Rather than pushing the issue of loyalty and Ophelia’s goodness, Horatio rested his head against Hamlet’s knee. “You didn’t do anything to me. I chose you.” Horatio kissed the bare flesh of Hamlet’s lower thigh, which had been exposed as his silk pajama pants bunched up from the hours spent sitting cross legged. He considered taking the kissing a bit further as he heard Hamlet’s breath catch just a touch but was quickly pulled back by the hallowed glower of a Greek shade flashing at him from his laptop screen. “Any luck so far?” He asked, scrolling down on the page.

Hamlet seemed ready to protest the teasing but stopped himself short as the weight of the room slid to the right. “I found another article on image alternation.” He said instead, turning the laptop around to Horatio.

Horatio frowned. “Does that one agree that it’s almost certainly a manipulation technique?”

“Yes.” Hamlet said as brittle as cracked glass. “It also says that it could be an effect of a spirit losing touch with reality, driven by unfulfilled restlessness.”

Horatio grimaced and jotted down a few notes from the page.

Increased emphasis on notable physical characteristics. Gradual increase vs. immediate? Particularly gauntness/blood/molestations associated with cause of death.

“Why are you writing all of this down?” Hamlet complained. The impatience he had inserted into his voice to disguise fear was easy to recognize.

“Helps me think.” Horatio leaned forward and snagged another piece of paper. He scanned it then passed it over one shoulder to Hamlet, who scoffed.

“I told you, Horatio,” Hamlet said angrily. “This isn’t some kind of demon thing.”

“Probably not.” Horatio spoke calmly through the unease. “But we can’t ignore the possibility that it could be. There have been many cases of evil spirits posing as loved ones to influence their targets, across many cultures.” He hoped it was an evil spirit. After all, if the ghost really was Hamlet’s dad, then that was a whole other battle. One Horatio wasn’t sure they could win. At least, if the thing they were communicating with was a demon or something, they could call the Vatican to order an exorcist. Hell, Horatio was sure his mom’s priest would do it. Father Lotto was off his shit.

_It’s going to kill all of us_, Horatio had sworn to Ophelia within the throws of panic.

Hamlet shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “This is my dad, Horatio. I would know him anywhere.”

“Would your dad ever hurt you?” Horatio asked.

“No…” Horatio sensed rather than saw Hamlet set his jaw. “But I know it was him. I’m completely sure.” He paused. “Aren’t you? I mean, you, like…said you felt his emotions, right?”

“I…” Horatio’s evenness faltered at the mention of direct communication but he forced himself to bundle that leaded fear deeper into his soul. “I did. Or I think I did.”

A pause. “Well?” Hamlet asked expectantly. “Did it feel real?”

“I think so,” Horatio admitted, bringing one hand to his chest unconsciously. “He felt…He felt like…it was a lot.” Pride and fear and anger and mortal terror, an unholy cocktail which left no room for compromise or questioning. Then once more bent over the ouija board, anxiety and bursting fear. Horatio’s fear never burst along his skin, it always coiled inward.

When he didn’t speak, Hamlet leaned forward in his seat and offered Horatio a quick kiss on the top of the head. His lips were sweet as he bent further to kiss Horatio’s forehead and his eyes were real and full of a million emotions at once. Horatio blinked and shook a cloud of residual emotion from his brain. “It was a lot.” He repeated. “It felt real.”

“And like my dad?” Hamlet prompted.

That was a harder question. “I didn’t know your dad.” Horatio said. “I wouldn’t be the reigning expert on that.” He took a breath which was just barely complete enough that he could pretend it wasn’t a gasp and clicked on another open tab in his own computer. “Did you look at the stuff I sent you on protective warding?”

“I did, though I’m not sure keeping my dad locked out is the answer here.” Hamlet seemed reluctant to leave the other issue alone. “Did you read what I sent you on mediums?”

“Yes.” Horatio said shortly. “Clairvoyance. Channeling. Lots of frauds. Very cool.” He struggled to remind himself that Hamlet had just asked him to do research, not a summoning but whatever confidence he’d had in helping the other had been lost with the events of last night. And then Ophelia asking him to do more, always more, and it was too- He had overreacted, he knew it, throwing waves of clawing panic where they didn’t need to be. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help anything.

Hamlet had been burned by his own father and Horatio was terrified.

Hamlet sighed. “If you were clairvoyant, it would make sense for why you were able to read Dad’s emotions.” When Horatio looked back to him, Hamlet was leaning forward on his knees, apparently deep in thought. “And all those other times with the board, did those feel the same?”

Horatio shrugged, hoping Hamlet would read the reluctance in his drawn brow. “I mean, a bit? I don’t know, I was always drunk when we did them and we were asking questions like ‘does Polonius make out with the costume mannequins when no one is in the costume shop,’ not ‘how were you killed.’ It’s not exactly the same thing.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Hamlet said. “Have you ever communicated with ghosts before?”

“Nope. Not before coming to Juilliard.” Which was, in and of itself, damnable evidence against his mediumship if he did say so. He was under the impression, after all, that mediums had crazy childhood experiences or encounters which led up to them deciding to hone their powers. The only supernatural thing to ever happen to Horatio when that kid from his Sunday school had claimed to be possessed by Satan and projectile vomited on him during First Communion practice. Worst day of his nine-year-old life.

“Maybe you just didn’t realize you were communicating with them? There’s all those stories about kids with ‘imaginary friends’…” Hamlet suggested lightly as Horatio clicked on another article.

“Maybe.” Horatio said evasively. “Have we looked into Danish folklore? That might be a good place to go next since it accounts for your father’s ancestry. The Vikings wrote down everything, didn’t they?”

“They did,” Hamlet sighed. “I’ll search for that next.”

“Great.”

Horatio prepared to dive back into the stories of desolate wakes left on the shores of Hades. Improper burial. It was a stretch but Hamlet had agreed that Gertrude didn’t exactly bury her husband with respect considering she was mere weeks away from marrying his brother. “Did you hear from the hospital?” Horatio asked Hamlet.

“Not yet,” Hamlet groaned, all thoughts of mediumship apparently abandoned. “They’re processing paperwork and form requests.”

Horatio nodded. “Makes sense.” He hesitated. “And you haven’t felt anything else?”

Hamlet touched a hand to his cheek, fingers brushing the purpling bruises, and shook his head.

“Good.” Horatio said firmly.

Hamlet had nothing to say to that and Horatio forced himself to break focus from ghost research as the silence lingered. “Hey,” Horatio put the notebook aside as easily as if it were glued to his palm, “it’s okay. Nothing else is going to happen.”

“About a million sources would claim otherwise.” Hamlet said miserably as he gestured to the disastrous living room.

It put Horatio on edge to realize just how right Hamlet was. They were in over their heads, weren’t they, and worse they both knew it. What chance did they honestly stand against a vengeful spirit? Especially since there was no way Hamlet would ever do anything to hurt his father. “We found preventive measures.” Horatio said comfortingly as, heedless of the mess, he made himself a spot on the couch. Hamlet leaned into him immediately, tucking beneath his arm like it was a shield against the world.

Hamlet laughed without humor. “Somehow I don’t think sage is going to cut it in this case, Horatio.”

“Then we’ll use incense, too, ” Horatio quipped. “Maybe throw in a crucifix or two.”

Hamlet didn’t smile so Horatio hugged him. “Nothing’s going to happen because we’re going to fix this.” With care, he coaxed Hamlet out of his chest and kissed him softly on the lips. “Are you okay?” He asked as he cupped the other’s cheeks.

Hamlet looked war torn, body tensed painfully and mouth set in a thin line. He nodded regardless as Horatio moved to massage his shoulders. He allowed Horatio to rub the stiffness from his muscles for a few more minutes before gently pulling his hands off. “Danish myths?” Hamlet asked, retrieving his laptop from where it had fallen beside him.

“Yes.” Horatio snagged his own laptop from the floor. He glanced over Hamlet’s cheek once more.

Whether the ghost was Hamlet’s dad or not, he was going to hurt them if they didn’t figure out how to fix this. He was going to kill them all. And Hamlet, for all his tenderness of heart and stubbornness of head, wouldn’t be able to approach this issue with a level mind.

Horatio fished his phone from his pocket and pulled up Ophelia’s number.

8:21 PM

_I’m in_

He opened a new tab and typed _mediums, channeling_ into the search bar.

* * *

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, poking at him. It was late; almost one in the morning. Osric was still around, looming in the kitchen despite the fact that he’d washed and re-washed the dishes left over from dinner twice.

“I’m awake,” Horatio said as he woke up. He’d dozed off while reading about draugr or something. “What’s up?”

“Gjenganger,” Hamlet said. “I think that might be the closest thing so far. From Scandinavia,” he shoved the computer into Horatio’s lap.

“What?” Horatio asked blearily as he looked at the page. “Oh, like a revenant?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Hamlet said. He shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. Revenants and pretty much all the undead in Scandinavian folklore were material beings; solid, but with dark intent and clouded memories of their past lives. However unsettled he was with the idea of his father’s spirit, he was more unsettled with his father’s corpse.

“How are they different from draugr?” Horatio asked, stretching. He jumped as he saw Osric. “Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were still here.”

Hamlet shot Osric a hard glare, but it had nothing on the sharp suspicion with which he looked at Horatio. No matter how hard he’d tried to persuade Osric that a ghost had hit him and not Horatio, he refused to buy it. Finally, Osric looked away. “I was just leaving,” Osric said stiffly, fixing his bespectacled gaze firmly on Hamlet. “Unless there’s anything else you need.”

“Nope,” Hamlet said easily, waving him away. “You told the school about the partial medical leave, right?” Hamlet asked. He caught Horatio gaping at him.

“Yes, sir. They’re being more than accommodating in your request only to take the acting lessons and Horatio’s play,” Osric sighed. “Shall I meet you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” Hamlet said. “Eleven. Sharp, since we need to be at the hospital by noon.” Hamlet said, settling himself back on the couch as Osric left. The whole apartment was unnaturally still.

“Why was Osric looking at me like that?” Horatio asked. “Also, since when are you on a medical leave?”

“Osric thinks you’re beating me,” Hamlet said, perhaps a bit too lightly. Horatio stiffened beside him. “And I’m taking the medical leave so that I can devote all my time to figuring this out,” he said, gesturing to all the papers.

“I’d never hit you,” Horatio said anxiously, brow tightening in concern. “Does he really think I hit you?”

“I don’t think so,” Hamlet said, snuggling into Horatio’s side. He was warm, and his arms were strong. “Osric just didn’t take well to my explanation that a ghost did it.”

“I...Yeah, that makes sense,” Horatio conceded. He was quiet for several seconds, then yawned. “Do you want to maybe consider going to bed?” Horatio asked gently. Hamlet shook his head.

“We need to read more about spiritualism,” Hamlet said earnestly. “Or revenants.”

“It’s one in the morning,” Horatio said. “And you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Hamlet scowled, taking back his computer.

“You do,” Horatio urged.

“I need to figure out how to deal with a revenant without destroying its corpse,” Hamlet said sharply. All accounts pointed to inevitably having to a) see his father’s corpse, and b) somehow destroy or purify it. Both were daunting and left him feeling sick.

“Didn’t you say you have a medical leave now?” Horatio’s gentleness turned smart. He was trying to reason with him for real now.

“I do,” Hamlet said suspiciously.

“Then doesn’t that mean you can look into that instead of going to class?” Horatio offered. “No reason to stay up late if you can do it during the day.”

Hamlet glared at him. As always, this was ineffective of Horatio. “I’d rather do it now,” he said, staring pointedly at a Wikipedia page.

“You could come to bed anyways,” Horatio said, voice different. Hamlet glanced at him, and there was a slight smirk on his lips.

“Are you trying to use sex to distract me from my paranormal investigations?” Hamlet said seriously. He felt like laughing, but it was fun to watch Horatio try to decide whether or not he was actually mad at him.

“I’m merely suggesting that we could take a break,” Horatio said easily. Hamlet knew this was a trap. He could feel it.

“And I’m suggesting we come up with a plan in case I get assaulted in my sleep again,” Hamlet said, words sharper than he intended. Horatio looked at him with mild worry, taking his hand gently.

“Let’s take a break,” Horatio said sweetly, placing a kiss on the back of his hand. “The wiki page you have open is about White Walkers from Game of Thrones, which are absolutely not real at all.”

“They came up in relation to the draugr,” Hamlet protested. Horatio closed his own laptop and placed it on the coffee table, leaning back against the couch. This was a trap. Hamlet knew it was a ploy to get him to go to bed, find he was comfortable and agree to stay there for the rest of the night.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Hamlet said firmly. “You can take me to bed, but the minute you’re done screwing me I’m going to come right back out here.” Horatio raised an eyebrow at him, but got up nonetheless.

Hamlet eyed his own bedroom suspiciously as they entered it, scouring it for any evidence of violent spirits. Horatio kissed him as they reached the bed, pulling his attention back. All thoughts of ghosts were abandoned as he lay him down on the bed and his kisses went downwards. At least, they were abandoned until Hamlet realized that no matter how fantastic Horatio was at his current task, it left him feeling exposed. “Horatio, stop,” he said quickly.

“What’s wrong?” Horatio asked, aroused and breathless, but worried all the same.

“I want you to screw me properly,” Hamlet said, pulling Horatio’s arm gently until he came up beside him and held him. Horatio shook his head.

“You’re worried,” Horatio said gently, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

“I can be worried _and_ want you to fuck me,” Hamlet said a little sharply. It was true. Fast track to getting him to be less anxious was to give him the rush of endorphins that came with an orgasm. He reached down and stroked Horatio’s cock, kissing his neck as he did so. “I don’t like being hot and bothered,” Hamlet reminded him. Judging from Horatio’s body, he didn’t either.

Unwilling to have air between the two of them, Hamlet opted for them to lay on their sides during sex, more or less as if they were spooning. It was probably the most convenient position for it anyways, but Hamlet hadn’t allowed anyone to be that close to him during sex since maybe high school. Even now it felt oddly romantic, and odder still that Hamlet was into it. He leaned his head back against Horatio’s shoulder as he got close, and was met with hungry kisses against his neck. In a matter of moments Hamlet felt himself unravel, reaching back with one hand to tangle his fingers in Horatio’s curls as he came into his hand. A minute or so later, he felt Horatio’s kisses turn rough as he moaned through his own orgasm. Hamlet reached for the nightstand and grabbed a handful of tissues to mitigate the inevitable mess.

Hamlet lay against Horatio for longer than he normally would without having showered. He didn’t want to go or to be separated from him, especially while Horatio was lavishing his shoulders and neck with gentle kisses. The hatred of stickiness, however, won out.

“You’re going to come with me to the bathroom,” Hamlet commanded in a whisper.

“Okay,” Horatio said, only half-listening to him as he kissed him on the lips.

Hamlet reluctantly got up, pulling lightly at Horatio’s hand as he took too long to move. Hamlet started the shower, periodically looking over his shoulder to make sure that Horatio was still there and that they didn’t have any supernatural company. Finally, he had to get in and pull the curtain closed. He could hear Horatio brushing his teeth and washing his face, which meant that he was still there. Hamlet hurried through washing up, and was finished in a record time of fifteen minutes.

“Horatio?” Hamlet asked before he pulled back the shower curtain.

“Yeah?” Horatio asked. Hamlet breathed a sigh of relief. He was still there. Hamlet pulled back the curtain and grabbed his towel, standing beside Horatio near the sink.

“Nothing,” Hamlet said as he applied all the necessary moisturizers to his face. He relaxed as he felt Horatio’s hand against the small of his back. He only half-dried his hair before returning to bed, despite the fact that it would guarantee his hair would do stupid, impossible to smooth cowlicks in the morning. He turned away from Horatio quickly to peel off the bandages from his wrists. Osric had given him weird clear bandages he was supposed to wear in order to let the wounds breathe, but it meant the injuries were visible. He applied them quickly and kept his wrists close against his sides.

“Where are you going?” Horatio asked as he settled back into bed. Hamlet paused. Obviously he was going back out to the couch to do more ghost research and possibly call one or five specialists in European folklore.

“Research,” Hamlet said, pulling on his silk pajamas. “Come with me.”

“I’d rather go to sleep,” Horatio said flatly. He was wearing his pajama pants, but not the sweater. Hamlet was more than tempted to curl up against his chest for warmth.

“I’d rather you come help me call Norse mythology experts about corpse cleansing,” Hamlet crossed his arms defiantly.

“I’ll help you with it tomorrow,” Horatio said, unwavering in his resolve.

“Can you come sleep on the couch instead?” Hamlet shifted on his feet. He didn’t want Horatio to be in a different room.

“I’ll sleep here,” Horatio said, feigning innocence. “If you need me you can just come back,” he said easily. Hamlet glared at him.

“Please come sleep on the couch?” Hamlet tried again, a touch of desperation in his voice. Like hell he’d let himself be alone in the house.

“You could bring your computer in here,” Horatio offered.

“No,” Hamlet said. If he did that he’d be too tempted to abandon the internet in favor of being held and kissed.

“Why not?”

“I won’t,” Hamlet scowled. “Come to the couch.”

“No,” Horatio said firmly, just a hint of a smile on his lips. Hamlet wanted to scream.

“Why not?” Hamlet said through his teeth.

“Are you going to go to sleep in I’m with you on the couch?” Horatio raised a brow.

“No,” Hamlet said sharply. “That’s the point.”

“Then I’m not going with you to the couch.” Horatio said firmly, leaning back against the pillows in a show of ease. “You can bring your research in here.”

“I hate you,” Hamlet huffed.

“Do you want me to leave?” Horatio challenged, lying on his side comfortably.

“No,” Hamlet said through his teeth. He turned on his heel and snatched the laptop from the other room. He was spurred back by a shot of adrenaline the moment he realized how dark and empty the rest of the apartment was. He ran back into the bedroom and locked the door behind him. He ignored Horatio’s inquisitive look as he climbed into bed beside him. He felt Horatio tense as he opened the laptop.

“You aren’t wearing bandages,” Horatio said weakly.

“Yes I am,” Hamlet said, voice thin with discomfort. He pulled his hand away as Horatio tried to touch his wrist. “Leave them. I’m fine.” He considered changing into a long-sleeved top, but it would require moving.

Horatio was quiet after that, though each time Hamlet glanced at him he was still awake or feigning sleep. Hamlet returned to his search. There was supposedly a renowned specialist in the occult living on an island off the southern coast of France. He’d seen the name come up in relation to most of the sources on the various Wikipedia pages or other articles. He himself had a Wikipedia page, complete with an unbelievably vague mention of where to find his contact info. Hamlet entered it into his phone.

“Horatio, there’s a guy in-” Hamlet looked over and found that Horatio had actually managed to fall asleep. Hamlet dropped his voice to a whisper. “You aren’t going to like this, but I found another medium online who supposedly specializes in this stuff. I’m going to call him tomorrow.” Horatio didn’t stir. He was laying on his back, taking up more of the bed than he really had any reason to. He looked calm and comfortable, his overgrown curls falling over his eyes. Reluctantly, Hamlet closed the laptop and placed it on the floor by the bed.

Hamlet brushed the hair from Horatio’s face, which didn’t wake him but did cause him to roll over in his sleep, draping an arm across Hamlet’s stomach. Hamlet sighed but settled down beside him, gently running his fingers over the muscles in his arm and chest. Hamlet felt him stir slightly and he stopped. “Are you awake?” Hamlet asked quietly. No answer. He leaned his head against Horatio’s chest, gingerly pulling his arm tighter around himself. It was easier to need him when he was alone, since he didn’t have to feel the uncomfortable squirming judgments that came with public emotional vulnerability.

Hamlet thought back to their conversation from a few nights ago. Horatio didn’t love him yet. And according to every piece of lived evidence, Hamlet doubted that three days was enough time to change that. No matter how badly Hamlet might wish it was. He snuggled into his chest, closing his eyes as he listened to the slow, soothing rhythm of Horatio’s heart. “Are you still asleep?” Hamlet whispered. There was no answer other than the steady rise and fall of his chest. He relaxed, forcing himself to match the pace of his breathing. “I love you,” Hamlet said as he exhaled. He hugged Horatio tightly as he closed his eyes, though sleep still wasn’t an option.


	18. Revenants Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia makes contact. Horatio freezes. Hamlet cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the lapse in posting last week! That being said, be sure you've read the past chapter(s) prior to this update. 
> 
> Content warning for references to previous self-harm.

Other than the impending mild terror of ‘talking to Letta’s ghost’ the day was quite nice. The soft autumnal glow of the light through the trees made Ophelia’s skin and hair look enchanting as she watched Fortinbras’ rugby practice. Oh, and she was surrounded by dogs. That was always a plus. Babadook had settled herself into Ophelia’s lap and the shiniest golden retriever sat at her legs. There was a small one nestled in the gap between her back and the tree.

If she were being honest, Ophelia didn’t expect to like watching sports, but it was really sweet to see Fortinbras so completely in her element. Also, she didn't realize how intrinsically violent it was. She cringed every time Fortinbras hit he ground.

But, that part was over now and the team was huddled around their cluster of water bottles. They were talking, not particularly quietly and not about rugby, so Ophelia eavesdropped.

“So when were you going to tell us about your cute girlfriend?” Someone said as they jostled Fortinbras’ shoulder.

“Oh, she’s not--” Fortinbras tried to say.

“Straight girls don’t just come to watch practice. She clearly wants to f--”

“Voltimand!” She said, much louder than she meant to. Fortinbras stole a quick look at Ophelia and she pretended to be intensely preoccupied with scratching Babadook’s ears. “It’s not like that. She’s just a friend from theater.”

“What type of theater person?” Someone else asked.

“Uh...costuming,” Fortinbras said.

“So, she’s already seen you in all sorts of disarray,” Ophelia couldn’t really see, but she imagined Voltimand waggled her eyebrows suggestively. 

“She hasn’t...that’s not...She wouldn’t even want...I don’t have my costumes yet.” Fortinbras sounded like she wanted to die, but there was nothing Ophelia could do about it lest she reveal herself as an eavesdropper.

“Oh, but when you do, I’ll bet you’ll be the best looking one on stage.”

“Ophelia!” Fortinbras called. “Come meet my teammates!”

Ophelia walked over, followed by her cadre of dogs. That was a possibility, wasn’t it. That people would think they were dating, which they most certainly were not. They were friends. Just friends. Friends. Ophelia turned the word over in her mind several times before making it to their huddle.

“Uh, hi!” She said with a small, awkward wave. “I’m Ophelia Cortez. I do costume design and fashion at Parsons.”

The one Ophelia knew was Voltimand looked her up and down before taking her hand and shaking it vigorously. “I’m Voltimand, captain of this fine establishment. Are you taken?”

“Voltimand!” Fortinbras snapped, a blush spreading cutely across her cheeks. Ophelia blushed too. Great, and everyone was looking at her too.

“Uh, recently broken up,” Ophelia explained.

“Oh, so that’s the problem. Okay,” Voltimand nodded and tried to reach for Fortinbras.

“I beg your pardon?” Ophelia interrupted so Voltimand had to turn back to her.

“It’s fine. She just doesn’t know when to let things die,” Fortinbras said through her teeth. “Anyway, this is Reynaldo, Cornelius, Lucianos, Gravedigger One, and Gravedigger Two,” she said as she gestured to a pair of twins.

“Is Gravedigger a family name?” Ophelia asked.

Voltimand laughed and threw her arms around her shoulders. Fortinbras looked profoundly uncomfortable. “If you saw the way they played, you’d understand. Fortinbras here has a ton-”

“Okay! Thanks for the great practice, captain,” Fortinbras said, louder than necessary and her eyes darting from person to person. “We’re gonna go now. Bye!” She ushered Ophelia and Babadook across the field and into a subway station.

“I am so, so sorry you had to see that,” Fotinbras said as she held the bridge of her nose. “I swear she usually has just a little bit more control.”

“It’s fine,” Ophelia took a minute to take stock of her surroundings as Fortinbras put Babadook in her backpack. “Do you want to just go to my place? I’ve got an hour or two before Horatio shows up for our exorcism.”

“Exorcism?” Fortinbras’ head snapped up. “Why? Do you have demons? I don’t want to go to a place that has demons. They’re worse than ants.”

“No?” Ophelia asked. “No demon. Potential ghost. I don’t really think it’s gonna be much. I just want to get Horatio and Hamlet to calm down.”

“Dude,” she said as they started walking towards Ophelia’s apartment. “Ghosts are a bad deal. You probably don’t want to go around fucking with them.”

“It’s not like they’re real,” Ohelia shrugged. “Worst case scenario, Horatio gets scared and cries in my arms for a couple hours. Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“Right, call me if your house gets possessed. I think my mom knows some demon cleaners,” Fortinbras said with a completely straight face. “Anyway, I take it you’re on speaking terms with Horatio again?”

“Yeah, we worked it out. He was really upset, but I think it’s all good now. I just need to figure out how to fix my relationship with Hamlet. Then everything would be settled and back to normal...whatever that actually was.”

“You still want a relationship with Hamlet?” Fortinbras asked. They were maybe about a block away from Ophelia’s place. Was that worry in her voice? Hurt? No. No way. “Do you really think that’s a good idea, my man?”

“We were friends before. I want to be friends with him again. We worked really well as a trio, even better as a quartet,” Ophelia tried to smile. Her room smelled like ghosts. She shook her head to try to clear the thought because it was so obviously stupid and unhelpful.

“A quartet?” Fortinbras asked.

“Yeah, uh, if you’re game, I mean,” Ophelia stammered. “You’re my friend so you’re welcome to the friend group. Uh, we’re a little fucked up at the moment, but we’ll be able to fix it.” There was a stretch of silence. “I’ll be able to fix it.” 

“I think you’re doing the best you can,” Fortinbras said as she sat on the floor.

“You can take the bed if you want,” Ophelia offered. “But yeah, I might have ruined that forever.”

“I don’t know. He seems weird.” She joined her on the bed and Ophelia felt her heart jump. Friends. Something fluttered in her stomach when she gracefully threw her jacket over the back of a chair. Friends.

“He can do some amazing things when he’s not grieving the death and reanimation of his father.”

“Yikes. That’s rough,” Fortinbras sighed as she leaned her head against the wall.

“You’re not even going to question the reanimated part?” Ophelia asked with a laugh.

“Nope, makes sense to me. Clearly he is tormented by the weight of his many heinous sins.”

“Hamlet or his dad?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, his dad was really cool. Un-ironically the best man I’ve ever interacted with. Other than Laertes, of course.” Ophelia turned her focus on Babadook playing with a pen.

“And who, pray tell, is that?” It was hard for Ophelia to remember that Fortinbras didn’t know every single aspect of her life. Still, she would have thought the topic of her twin brother would have come up earlier.

“Twin brother. Fences with Horatio. Best kid. The most loyal,” Ophelia explained.

“Kid?” Fortinbras laughed and it sounded like chiming bells or fairy song or something poetic that Ophelia couldn’t think of right now.

“He was born second. I think I deserve older sibling rights.”

“You have sibling rights period,” Fortinbras said. “I would have killed for one. I was so bored as a kid, you literally have no idea.”

“Hence the sports?” Ophelia offered.

“Hence the sports.” Fortinbras smiled at her. Really smiled. It felt like Ophelia’s heart was going to soar to the stars. And then there was a knock on her door.

“It’s unlocked, you can come in,” Ophelia yelled at who she assumed must be Horatio. And lo and behold, it was. Much to Ophelia’s displeasure, Fortinbras immediately began packing her things to leave. “Do you have the goods?” She asked.

Horatio nervously pat his bag. “It’s all here.”

“Sweet, and I have ice cream and chocolate in the freezer. We are so fucking prepared.” Ophelia’s smile dropped when Babadook started growling at Horatio.

“Uh, good dog?” He said, looking to Fortinbras for help.

“I am so sorry,” She said, scooping the puppy into her arms. “She’s usually very friendly. I’ve got no idea what this is all about.” She grabbed her bag and stopped for a moment in the door. “I’m sorry, man. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” Horatio said to the closed door.

“So, ghost?” Ophelia asked.

“Ghost.” Horatio agreed.

Ophelia wasn’t afraid. Ghosts were emphatically not real, after all. They were merely the result of some poorly timed infrasound and scary aesthetics, i.e, the exact type of things that Hamlet and Horatio were into. Ophelia wasn’t scared, and yet she totally was. The logic of how and why were completely beyond her, but she was afraid.

“So, do we just...do this?” She asked as Horatio shakily set up the board.

“Uh, yeah. Just the same as normal, I think.”

“Should I grab the wine then?” Ophelia joked.

“If you even so much as think about alcohol I will pack up and leave right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Ophelia said softly as she sat beside him. She touched his shoulder and was content when he didn’t flinch away. “It’s going to be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to us.”

“Nothing bad is going to happen to you,” he corrected and Ophelia felt a spike of dread punch into her gut. It was fine. Things were wrong, but not because of ghosts. They weren’t real. They were not real.

Fortinbras left her coat on the chair. Ophelia grabbed it and held it in her lap as she sat next to Horatio. “I have some ground rules,” he said, his uneasy authority crumpling with every word. “No asking him how he died. No provoking it to do something terrible. No saying it doesn’t exist. No anything. Just questions.”

Ophelia nodded in agreement and felt the softness of Fortinbras’ jacket beneath her fingertips. This wasn’t going to be bad. It would be fine. Totally fine. Right? Right.

Something lurched as soon as Horatio and Ophelia touched their fingers to the planchette. It was a lot more violent and dramatic than all the other times they played in the catwalks.

H-E-L-L-O H-O-R-A-T-I-O

He swallowed hard and tried to regain some semblance of composure. “And Ophelia too,” he said. “Is this Hamlet’s father, Letta?” As if that needed to be asked.

YES. Ophelia felt her shoulder wrench as she was pulled across the board. It had never hurt before. She didn’t really think they’d get this far and she had no clue what to say.

“Are you doing alright?” she asked like an idiot.

NO

“What’s wrong?” Ophelia said as Horatio grew even more anxious, if that were even possible.

T-O-O M-U-C-H T-I-M-E H-E-R-E

“Can we help?” Ophelia asked. “Hamlet needs you. He loves you so much.”

NO. H-U-R-T H-I-M

“It’s okay, he’ll forgive you. We can help--” It felt like something hit Ophelia square in the back as she doubled over the board, fingertips still on the planchette.

L-O-S-I-N-G M-E R-U-N 

“Tell us how we can help,” Ophelia commanded. “Hamlet needs it. We want him to stop hurting.”

C-L-E-A-N-S-E B-L-O-O-D P-A-R-I-S

“What’s in Paris? We don’t know. You have to be specific.”

Ophelia screamed as a shower of glass fell from burst lightbulbs. So this was real, then. Okay, now she could panic.

The air around them turned thin and cold. Ophelia could see her breath spiral in front of her like curls of dragon’s smoke. She felt Horatio shivering next to her. She wanted so badly to grab a blanket for him, but she dared not lift her fingers from the planchette. Her crucifix burned into her skin like ice. She could feel the delicate filigree of frost work its way into her chest, freezing the film of fluid between the tissue of her lungs. The friction of the ice crystals tore her flesh to lacy ribbons.

Ophelia couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe and she was going to die. Frost radiated across her skin from the center of her necklace. It needed to be off. She needed to take it off right now. Her fingers were slow and thick and numb. She gave up on the clasp and forced her hands behind the chain and pushed. The metal left scorch marks across her palms, but it broke and she threw it against the wall. Vague, orange light pulsed in the base of her neck and curled around her spine. It was soft, like blankets falling around her shoulders, but still cold. The damaged skin in the shape of a cross shot daggers of pain through her skin and muscle.

“Horatio,” she tried to stammer but her tongue was cold and heavy in her mouth. His face was pale and grayish and there were tears frozen to his cheeks. He might have been trying to say something, but his bottom lip just shook.

So, Ophelia panicked. She pushed Horatio to the side and pressed both of her hands on the planchette. Immediately, there were finger shaped frost marks on the back of her hands, small and feminine. That couldn’t have been Letta’s hands. No, Hamlet’s father was huge and Danish and that wasn’t right. Everything around her burned with ice. Who else was it supposed to be? Who else cared enough? There was only one.

“Mom, are you there? Please, please help me!” In reality, the words were incomprehensible as Ophelia struggled to make her lips and tongue and throat work. “Mom, please! Please! Please! I’m scared and cold!”

The orange light climbed her spine like a feathered serpent on a caduceus. It nestled and fluffed its wings in the space between her eyes and skull. One more time. She had to try just one more time, but she was so tired and just needed to sleep. The nightmare would be over when she woke up. “Mom,” she whispered as she curled on her side. “Please save me. I’m cold.”

The orange light burst around her eyes and in her head, like marigolds petals and sunlight. The ice hurt as it thawed from her skin, but it was thawing and she needed to sleep.

“Ophelia, I’m coming in. I think I left my coat--” she vaguely heard someone say in the back of her sleep addled brain. “Oh my god, what the fuck did you do to her?” That was Fortinbras’ voice and she sounded scared, but Ophelia didn’t care. She was probably soft and warm. And Ophelia was so tired and needed to sleep.

* * *

Ophelia was the epicenter. Horatio didn’t understand how to account for that knowledge but he knew it all the same, knew it as plainly as he knew that humans weren’t meant to be this cold and that the wailing fear stinging deep in his chest wasn’t his and that whatever danger there was in the room was now gone, swept away with Ophelia’s throwing of the cross.

All this Horatio knew but, for all the world, he didn’t understand.

“What did you do?” Fortinbras repeated forcefully, eyes now fully devoted to scanning Ophelia for injuries. Her breath caught when she saw the frostbite by the base of Ophelia’s neck. “How…?” She asked, anger melting into confusion.

Horatio shook his head frantically. The cold was rapidly turning to a blinding warmth and, mindlessly, he wondered how offended Fortinbras would be if he started stripping. She was a jock, right? She’d probably be used to it. She was also a lesbian, though. He kept his clothing on and elected to curl into the tightest ball he could manage.

His breathing was way too hard and thin, he thought, and the action of drawing air was making him lightheaded. He needed Hamlet to come fix this. Kissing, kissing usually did the trick. Hamlet wasn’t here.

Fortinbras snapped her fingers in front of his face and Horatio looked up to her. “What happened?” She asked slowly. It was difficult to keep track of her words, which seemed to drip through his brain, slipping from his stiff grasp.

“I need Ophelia.” Horatio managed to shove through chattering teeth.

“Why is she so cold?” Fortinbras held the unconscious Ophelia close as she wrapped her coat tightly around her. “It’s, like, ninety degrees in here.”

“I need Ophelia.” Horatio repeated because that was all he knew he could say with certainty. “She wants Ophelia. She’s so scared, she doesn’t want her to freeze too.”

“Who?” Fortinbras eyed him warily.

“She.” Horatio clarified. “She does.”

“Yeah but who’s she?”

Horatio didn’t understand what Fortinbras wasn’t getting. “ She .” He repeated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He tried to uncurl but got stuck halfway by the lead in his limbs. A small noise of frustration tore from him. He needed to get to Ophelia. Right now. He needed to get to her and he couldn’t and she was right there. He could barely hear over the roaring in his ears but still felt when Fortinbras touched his arm, if only because the sensation seemed to burn.

“Give her to me!” Horatio cried. “I need her! I have to help her!”

“Okay, just, just calm down. Horatio!” Fortinbras seemed to make a calculated decision and gently lay Ophelia to one side. She grabbed both of Horatio’s shoulders firmly. “I need you to calm down.” She said.

“I can’t!” He yelled. It was getting harder and harder to speak. “I don’t know how and I’m not supposed to panic!”

Fortinbras bit her lip and glanced back to Ophelia. “Okay,” she said evenly, “but you are. And I need you to calm down before you end up passing out. What will help?”

“Ophelia, I need to see, I need to--” he reached around Fortinbras towards where he thought she was. “Please just let me--”

There was obvious hesitation in the movement but Fortinbras stepped aside. When it became clear that Horatio wasn’t able to stand on his own, limbs fused as they were in unnatural patterns, she dragged him over. Horatio immediately set about trying to wrap Ophelia tighter in the jacket, even if the fumble in his fingers made the task near to impossible. All he understood was that Ophelia was frozen and he needed to make her warm again. The frostbite cross was a sickening image, the pale blue in her lips, terrifying, and the foreign fear in his chest was now so thoroughly mixed into his own that there was no distinguishing them. He peeled off his jacket and laid it over Ophelia diligently. Fortinbras stopped him before he could further blanket her with his shirt.

“I can grab a quilt.” She said carefully.

“We need to get the wet clothes off her.” Horatio said deliriously. “She’s going to die if we don’t.”

He didn’t think it was possible for Fortinbras to look more concerned but somehow she managed. “Horatio, she’s not wearing wet clothes. We’re...we’re in her apartment.”

“I know.” He said. “We need to get her wet clothes off.”

Fortinbras swallowed. “Okay,” she said, “here’s what we’re going to do.” She bent down and gently pried Horatio’s fingers off of Ophelia’s upper arms. “I’m going to lift Ophelia up and put her in the bed under some more blankets. Then I’m going to look for a first aid kit for the...frostbite.” She touched a hand to Horatio’s forehead and grimaced. “You’re going to sit with her and focus on calming down.”

“Don’t make me leave her.” Horatio begged.

“I’m not.” Fortinbras said. “I just said you could sit with her.” With awkward gentleness, she scooped Ophelia up and carried her to the bed. Horatio watched intently as Fortinbras tucked Ophelia under the pile of quilts and blankets already on her bed. She paused, glanced around, and added a wagging tailed puppy to the pile.

“Okay.” Fortinbras said to herself. She crossed back to Horatio and hauled him to his feet. As soon as she had him seated at the foot of the bed, she started wrapping a large floral blanket around his shoulders.

“I’m too hot.” Horatio protested loosely. The warmth infecting his chest had long since boiled to a dull burn, like the most unbearable summer day formed directly within his bones.

“You’re cold.” Fortinbras corrected. “Like, way too cold.” She pulled a second blanket up and over his head like a hood, bundling it tight in the front and leaving Horatio feeling vaguely like a cooking potato. She paused and peered in at him. “What’s going to help you?” She asked again.

Horatio stared at her. “I want Hamlet.” He said weakly.

“Okay.” Fortinbras said, though it was rather reluctantly. “I’ll call him as soon as I’m finished with helping out Ophelia.”

The thought instantly made Horatio feel calmer. Hamlet had helped him before when talking to ghosts went sour and scary and wrong. Well, he’d made it better then made it worse but that didn’t matter so much now that Horatio was sleeping with him.

“It was a different ghost.” He said to no one in particular. “The ghost in the cross.”

Fortinbras didn’t look away from Ophelia’s injuries, though an extra stitch of worry was added to her forehead at the words. She ran a gentle finger around the shape on Ophelia’s upper chest.

Fortinbras glanced to him. “Other ghost?” She asked.

“Not Hamlet Sr.” Horatio confirmed. He wanted Fortinbras to leave so that he could ditch the blanket and put it over Ophelia, who was starting to shiver in her sleep. Emerging from under the overpilling of warmth, her face had paled into something foreign and strange. It hurt Horatio to even look at.

Fortinbras frowned as she examined the finger prints across Ophelia’s hands, so like the one on Hamlet’s cheek. “Then who was it?” She asked almost fearfully.

“Her.”

“Don’t you start that again.” Fortinbras said sharply. She softened her voice when Horatio stiffened. “Just...who do you mean?”

Horatio shook his head. Another case of knowing but not understanding.

Fortinbras sighed. “Fine, just. What  do you know?”

Horatio had to think it through for a moment. “The ghost came from the cross.” He announced. “The other ghost comes from Hamlet. We need to go to Paris and burn Hamlet Sr.’s corpse. I don’t think Hamlet’s going to like that much.”

“I, um, would imagine not.” Fortinbras said. Somewhere between sitting Horatio down and now, she had managed to locate a first aid kit, which she was using to bandage the frostbite burns on Ophelia's fingers.

Horatio nodded. “I shouldn’t have done this.” He said dully. “I knew it was going to hurt Ophelia. I shouldn’t have.” A fresh wash of anxiety swayed up from within him, following along now well established circuits. “I’m dying too much. I don’t want to die anymore.”

“You’re not dying, Horatio.” Fortinbras said comfortingly.

“I’m not but they did and I keep feeling them.” Horatio said frantically. “Is this how it’s supposed to feel? I don’t- I don’t understand, I don’t know why anyone would want this, I don’t- I didn’t want to. Why do people keeping asking me to? Why do they keep asking?”

Fortinbras laid Ophelia’s hand back by her side and placed it on Horatio’s back instead. “You’re not making any sense.” She said. “How about you try distracting yourself with something else? You can talk to me more about your play? I’d, um, love to know more about your thought process leading up to--”

“Hamlet’s dad is going to kill him and  she’s going to kill Ophelia and I’m going to lose them both.” Horatio sobbed. “I don’t know why they keep asking me to do this. Why do I keep agreeing?” He heaved a painfully ragged breath. “Is she a gjenganger too? I don’t know- We shouldn’t have- I need to go home. I want to go home. We can’t stay here, Ophelia can’t-” He cut himself off by holding his breath and, for a moment, it was quiet in the room.

“Where’s the cross?” Horatio said with sudden, eerie evenness.

“I…” Fortinbras looked disturbed. “What cross? Why are you--”

Horatio didn’t bother listening to the rest as he carefully eased himself off the bed. His body felt too solid in its burning but he managed to walk to the corner he thought Ophelia had thrown it. Sure enough, the crucifix was there, caught between a space in the floorboards. He stared at it for a beat before picking it up between cautious fingers. It was warm to the touch.

He lay it in the center of his palm and held himself still. This time, when the feelings came, they were soft and subdued, dull windings of icy terror and loneliness and despair and pride. He tried to focus on the slipping sensations. “Ariche.” He said. “Dirty War.”

“And you are officially freaking me out.” Fortinbras said from somewhere behind him. “Where’s your phone? I’m going to call Hamlet.”

Horatio cradled the crucifix in his hands and brought it back to the bed. It was weird. He hadn’t held a crucifix in years, not since he’d thrown all his old Catholic paraphernalia away at sixteen. But, then again, he had known this cross his whole life. Or she had. She had.

He was starting to grow truly cold so he burrowed back into the blanketed mass. The husky puppy growled at him again as he settled in but he was far too worn out to care. All he needed to do was stay awake to make sure Ophelia was okay. Then stay awake until Hamlet came. And then everything would feel right again.

* * *

Hamlet was just leaving the hospital with Osric when his phone went off. Horatio was supposed be off with Ophelia doing whatever they did when they weren’t with him, which could be anything ranging from crying over wine (a bit unlikely, given it was the afternoon) to conspiring against him (unlikely because Horatio was fucking him). So it would be something in the middle, then.

“Horatio?” Hamlet asked into the phone, pausing Osric.

“Uh, nope. Fortinbras,” Fortinbras said stiffly. Hamlet grimaced.

“Give Horatio his phone,” Hamlet hissed.

“Horatio can’t come to the phone,” Fortinbras said. There was some shuffling on the other line. “Wait, he wants to talk.” Hamlet paced slightly in front of the hospital doors, scowling at no one in particular.

“Hamlet?” Hamlet jumped as he heard Horatio’s voice, ragged on the other line.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Hamlet asked, pausing. Osric stared at him.

“Ghosts,” Horatio said weakly. He sounded like he was shivering? At the very least, his phone hand was shaking. “Can you come over?”

“Uh, yeah. Where? Why are you with Fortinbras?” Hamlet’s voice was sharper perhaps than was really beneficial, but he was antsy.

“Ophelia’s.”

“Right.” Hamlet groaned. “Be there in ten.” He hung up before Fortinbras could talk to him again. He turned to Osric. “Drive me to Ophelia’s.”

“Is that a good--”

“Now, Osric!” Hamlet snapped, walking straight for the car. He clutched the autopsy records in his hands. They’d have to wait until he could bring Horatio back to his apartment or somewhere equally as secure.

Hamlet’s stomach twisted itself into odd shapes as they drove. Osric made no further protest, which was a smart decision. Hamlet’s current emotional instinct was to scream at the next person who spoke to him. He had to see Ophelia. It was, what, three days? Four, maybe? He’d never spoken to an ex so soon after a break up. Except maybe Laertes, but that was less talking and more just one more emotionally-turbulent hook-up than any real communication.

Traffic was bad. Truly nothing compared to trying to drive through the twisted heart of the city between the hours of three and seven, and here they were braving it at exactly five. What geniuses they were. Hamlet sank further down into his seat, glaring vaguely at the cars around him. Not that they’d be able to see it through the custom tinted glass. It did help him feel better.

“Osric, how much longer?” Hamlet asked.

“With this traffic, maybe ten or fifteen minutes,” Osric replied calmly.

“You said that ten or fifteen minutes ago,” Hamlet glowered.

“Traffic was less bad then.”

“Can you speed?” Hamlet asked. “Or, I don’t know. Does this thing have sirens?”

“I’m not a cop, sir,” Osric said with just a tinge of exhaustion. “And if we get pulled over we will be there even later.”

“How much more traffic?” Hamlet undid his seatbelt, laying across the backseat in what felt like an appropriately exasperated sprawl.

“This is the middle of the city, sir,” Osric said in his lecturing voice. “I’m afraid there will be traffic until we get there.”

“I want to call Horatio,” Hamlet said with a sigh.

“You can call him,” Osric said with flat disinterest.

“I can’t call him,” Hamlet turned onto his side, picking idly at the edge of the strange, transparent bandage. His stitches itched, and the slight scabs were ugly and just  _ asking _ to be picked or peeled off.

“Do you need to charge your phone, sir?” Osric asked.

“No,” Hamlet accidentally managed to peel up an edge of the bandage. Now the whole thing had to go.

“Then call him,” Osric offered. “Unless this is a more philosophical barrier?”

“That one,” Hamlet grumbled as he peeled off the rest of the plastic-y bandage. He gagged slightly as the coagulated blood on his wound stuck to it, leaving a sickening film of scab, lymph, and blood.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the gesture,” Osric said with a gentleness Hamlet recognized as disguising tired resignation. Hamlet moved onto carefully scratching at the itchy red skin around the stitches.

“He doesn’t love me,” Hamlet said flatly. “I’ll call him once he loves me.”

“That never stopped you before,” Osric said, now actually investing some interest. Hamlet hated it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hamlet said, turning onto his back and staring at the surprisingly clean ceiling. “Do you wash this car every day?” He asked.

“Once a week,” Osric sighed. “Hamlet, do you want to talk about what’s the matter?”

“No.” Hamlet said firmly. “How much longer? Are we on campus yet?” Scratching near the wound only made the stupid thing itch more, so he gingerly ran his fingers over the ridges of the stitches. It kind of hurt, but it also soothed the itching, but also made the itching worse, which made him need to scratch it more.

“We’re within sight of campus,” Osric paused awkwardly. “Sir, stop picking at it.”

“I’m dying,” Hamlet said, completely serious. “It itches.”

“Don’t scratch,” Osric said firmly. “Unless you want the scar to be hideous?”

“How hideous?” Hamlet asked as they pulled into a parking spot.

“Depends on how much you pick at it,” Osric said as he flicked off the engine. “Shall I walk with you to her room?”

“No, I’m going to leave you here while I enter a room that has a furious lesbian, Ophelia, and possibly an even more furious Laertes,” Hamlet said sarcastically. “Of course you’re coming. Bring the hunting knife.”

“I will not be bringing the knife,” Osric said calmly as he opened the door. “I see you’ve left you bandage on the floor.”

“It itched. And it was peeling.” Hamlet said as he got out. “Come on.”

Hamlet knew the walk to the Parsons dormitory fairly well. Meaning, he could identify the building once he saw it but had no idea where he had to walk to get to it. So he stayed beside Osric instead of walking ahead of him, as he would have liked. Luckily, Osric didn’t make any further inquiries into his emotional or physical state. Good for him.

They had to be let in by a student, since the campus had fancy key-card locks. Luckily, art students have no fear of murderers, so a deranged-looking young woman with black and white hair let them in. Hamlet grimaced at the layers of poor-quality, ill-matched foundation on her skin. She’d probably get cancer from it.

Up next was the elevator ride. Awkward silence for five floors, broken only by the overly loud music from the girl’s headphones. Hamlet missed his building. No one ever got in the elevator with another person there. Soon enough, he and Osric were rid of her.

“You can wait out here,” Hamlet said. Osric nodded, standing near the door but not too close. Hamlet took a breath and knocked.

He jumped slightly as Fortinbras opened the door, displeasure as clear on her face as the tacky silver dye in her hair. “Hey,” she said coldly, opening the door. Hamlet shoved past her without a response.

He found Ophelia laying in bed, looking rather uncomfortable. She wasn’t quite asleep, since she opened her eyes as he came in, but she was clearly too tired to react. Which was convenient. Hamlet ignored her in favor of Horatio, who was huddled in a mess of blankets on the floor, head in his hands. Hamlet knelt beside him, gently placing his hand on his arm.

“Hey,” he said quietly. Horatio didn’t really move, but he didn’t move away. Hamlet unwrapped some of the blankets so he could sit closer beside him.

“I can feel them,” Horatio said into his hands. Hamlet pried them away from his face and held them. “She’s cold. And he’s angry,” Horatio muttered to no one in particular.

“Calm down,” Hamlet said as he kissed Horatio on the cheek. “Are they here now?”

“No,” Horatio said as he took a breath. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Were you talking to Dad again?” Hamlet asked, more or less forcing himself into Horatio’s arms.

“Yes,” Horatio nodded, clinging to him maybe a little too tightly. “He’s angry. We need to go to Paris,” Horatio said, finally meeting his gaze. He looked terrible; he was shivering and he had dark circles under eyes.

“I’m going to go to Paris,” Hamlet corrected gently, smoothing Horatio’s hair. He was vaguely aware that Fortinbras was watching them. “Want to go home?”

“Yeah,” Horatio said hesitantly. “Wait, no. We can’t. Ophelia is hurt.”

“I have Osric here,” Hamlet sighed. “He can take a look at her.”

“Okay,” Horatio nodded before burying his face against his shoulder, hugging him close. Hamlet kissed his neck and leaned against him, rubbing his back lightly as he shivered.

“Osric!” Hamlet called back, reluctantly pulling away by a few inches. Within seconds Osric was let in. “Check on Ophelia.” He commanded, already settling back against Horatio. He was shivering less, and his breathing was relaxing into a healthy pace. There was quiet for several minutes as Osric looked her over and took some of her vitals with his smaller medical kit.

“Osric?” Hamlet heard Ophelia ask after another minute. Hamlet tightened his grip on Horatio.

“Yes, Ophelia. I’m here,” Osric said in his calming crisis voice. “You seem to have fainted for a while. Have you been eating enough?”

“It was--there was,” Ophelia stumbled for her words. “I’m okay. Is Horatio okay?”

“Horatio seems alright,” Osric said, glancing to where Hamlet was holding him. Hamlet sent him a very pointed and meaningful look which he hoped communicated ‘I want to leave right this instant so please stop speaking.’

“Okay,” Ophelia said with a deep breath. “If you’re here...is he…?”

“Are you alright?” Horatio asked, stroking the small of his back absently.

“Hamlet is…” Hamlet sent him daggers. “Here. Though he’s leaving shortly. We were just on our way back to the apartment when Horatio called.”

“Right,” Ophelia said. Hamlet took that as his cue to quit, so he pulled Horatio to his feet, holding his hand as they quickly left into the hall. Osric stayed behind for a few moments, talking to Ophelia and Fortinbras. Hamlet closed the door to the room so that he and Horatio had some privacy in the hall.

“Are you alright?” Hamlet asked, placing his hand on Horatio’s cheek. He looked a little better. At the very least he was standing.

“Maybe,” Horatio said, glancing back to the door. “Yeah. The, uh. Board. We need to get the board,” he said miserably.

“I’ll get it once Osric comes out,” Hamlet said, stretching up to kiss him on the lips. He felt Horatio’s arms wrap around his waist as he relaxed into it.

“Is it okay if we don’t talk about ghosts or murder or anything for the rest of the night?” Horatio asked, barely above a whisper. Hamlet thought back to the coroner’s report in the car, but when he looked at how stressed and uncharacteristically evasive Horatio was he paused.

“Okay,” Hamlet yielded. “But tomorrow morning we look at the autopsy report.”

“Thanks,” Horatio gave him a faint smile as he kissed him again, this time with a little more presence. Hamlet closed his eyes and let some tension leave his own body. At least, until Osric opened the door. He pulled away as quickly as possible, but something in Osric’s trained apathy and Fortinbras relative disdain told him they’d been seen. He grabbed the board and the planchette off the ground in a swift gesture, glad that it was so near the door.

“Ready to go, sir?” Osric asked.

“Yup,” Hamlet said a bit too fast, eager to be free of the steeliness of Fortinbras’ judgement. He didn’t dare take Horatio’s hand in plain sight, but he did tug briefly at the edge of his coat as he was slow to move. “Come on.”

The ride back was equally slow but significantly less agonizing. Hamlet would have liked to have asked about why Horatio was so scared, but he’d agreed not to. No ghosts until tomorrow. Any jealousy he may have felt about being excluded from the seance was drowned by worry. Ophelia, unlike him, was not prone to fainting spells or any other bizarre frailties. He wasn’t sure what reasonable explanation Osric managed to make up, but he knew it had to be ghosts. Nothing else would leave Horatio in such a state.

Hamlet opted to have Osric leave them alone at the apartment. If push came to shove, he’d cook. Hopefully he could force Horatio to do it. But for now he needed to be alone with him, and that took priority over food. Once they were safely behind closed doors, he took a breath. “Horatio, what will help?” He asked as gently as he could. Horatio looked absolutely war-torn and exhausted.

“Bed,” Horatio said quietly. “Just come to bed.” Hamlet nodded.

“No--”

“No outside clothes. I know,” Horatio said stiffly as they made it to the bedroom. They both changed into their pajamas and got under the covers. The minute they were in bed Hamlet rolled over on top of him, kissing him hard. Horatio’s hands settled on his hips.

“Better?” Hamlet asked as he pulled away for air. Horatio kissed his neck.

“Yeah,” Horatio said between kisses. His skin was warming now, and Hamlet blushed as he felt himself get aroused by the heat. He kissed Horatio on the cheek.

“You’re okay,” Hamlet whispered, running his fingers through his hair. He never noticed before that he liked how it smelled.

“Are you alright?” Horatio asked, stroking the small of his back absently.

“I’m completely fine,” Hamlet said as he kissed his temple, nuzzling his curls slightly. It was weird worrying about Horatio. There was a strange warmth in his chest as well, normally only reserved for when it was late at night and he was feeling particularly vulnerable. He tried and failed to push it aside as Horatio touched his skin. He sighed in resignation, sinking against his chest. Horatio didn’t love him like that yet, so his own feelings would have to wait.


	19. Rest and Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia rests. Horatio lies. Hamlet cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry (again) for the late update.
> 
> Trigger warnings for description of a violent death.

Ophelia awoke to the nonsensical sounds of Fortinbras murmuring in her hair and Babadook nuzzling under her arm. Her eyelids were heavy and her muscles screamed at her for trying to move, but she was alive and alive would have to do for now. She was alive and they had a chance and they knew what to do and Osric was staring at her, which meant he probably asked a question.

“I’m okay,” she said hastily even though it was very much a lie. If Osric was here that meant Hamlet was here and he was the only human alive who might kill her if enough people weren’t watching. She tried to shake her head but her neck ached. Hamlet wouldn’t kill her. That would be too messy and he hadn’t shown an interest before, so why would he want to now? Right, logic. It made her thawed-out brain hurt.

“When was the last time you had food or water?” Osric asked with his trademark voice of glass.

Speaking was still so difficult. “This morning, not long, I don’t...I don’t remember exactly. I’m fine, Osric.”

“Ophelia, I have to insist. You need to take your health more seriously. I know it’s difficult, especially since you want to go into such an image-influenced industry. You must prioritize your--”

“Osric,” Ophelia snapped without meaning to. “It’s not my health. It’s my mom! She’s inside my necklace and she tried to help and she froze to death! God, Osric, that’s what it feels like!” She dissolved into quiet hysterics as Fortinbras and Osric tried to comfort her. Warm hands on her shoulders, coaching her to breathe. Warm hands on her back tethering her to this realm. Part of her wanted to snap and break free, to explore the rift that was burned into her chest, but warmth of their skin against her own kept her firmly here. Wherever this actually was. It couldn’t be earth.

Ophelia startled against the wall when someone pressed something cold into her hands. Fortinbras hushed her and continued to pet her hair. Just like her mom used to do. “No, no, I can’t…” she muttered as she dropped the waterbottle in her lap.

“I’m not going to leave until you drink it,” Osric stated calmly and non-judgmentally. “Unless you would like me to call you an ambulance.”

Ophelia tried to fumble with the cap, but ended up handing it to Fortinbras until her dexterity returned. “I’m not dehydrated,” she whispered between sips. The cold burned her throat, and she wanted to spit it out or warm it up or something, anything, so she didn’t need to be reminded of the cold.

After a few minutes of staring at Ophelia with wide eyes, Osric took Fortinbras to the other side of the room to talk about what had happened. It was probably an ill conceived effort towards privacy, but Ophelia lived in a college dorm, so screw that. She could hear everything that was going on, including Hamlet and Horatio talking in the hallway. At least Hamlet wouldn’t inflict more ghosts upon Horatio tonight.

“It was ghosts,” Fortinbras said seriously.

“Not you too,” Osric sighed. “Listen, there are many reasonable explanations for...whatever that was.”

“Like what?” If there was anyone who could slightly compare to Osric’s face of apathy, it was Fortinbras.

“She would have passed out without enough water and--”

“And consequently almost frozen to death? Right. In the end of September. In her dorm room.” Fortinbras was nowhere near the ballpark of fucking around.

“If she were truly disregarding herself that much--”

“She has frostbite marks.”

“Well, they certainly look like that, but they could just be bruises.”

“From what?” Fortinbras snapped. “Who would hurt her like that?” Osric moved towards the door, presumably to leave with Hamlet and Horatio. Ophelia hastily finished the water even though it hurt, but Fortinbras grabbed Osric’s arm. “Ask Horatio about what happened and think on it,” she commanded.

Fortinbras returned to her side and sat at the foot of her bed. Ophelia pulled herself to sitting and kept the heap of quilts tucked around her legs. She didn’t feel like she was going to die anymore. Fortinbras pulled the blankets over her legs too and Ophelia could feel her legs next to her own. The warmth was still near to intoxicating.

“What do we do now?” Ophelia asked as she scratched the top of Babadook’s head.

“I don’t know,” Fortinbras’ voice sounded so tired and daggers of guilt stabbed into her gut. She did this. She did this to Fortinbras and Horatio. It would be a miracle if either of them ever forgave her. At least as far as she could tell, Horatio hadn’t been marked, not that she was able to get a good look at him. She figured there would have been a lot more screaming on Hamlet’s part if she had marked Horatio.

She needed to tell someone what happened. Someone had to understand. If ghosts really were real, then she wasn’t the only person this had ever happened to. Then who should she talk to? Dad was out of the question for sure. Laertes had never been one for horrors. Her abuela. She needed to tell her. She would know. She had to know something more than the people around her. Even if she didn’t know everything, it was a start.

“Why don’t we call your brother?” Fortinbras suggested. “Okay?” She leaned over and placed a soft hand on Ophelia’s knee. “And I don’t really want to leave, if that’s okay. I don’t want--”

For this to happen again. Ophelia filled in the gap. Honestly, she would have cried if Fortinbras left her. “Okay,” she agreed and tried to dial Laertes number to no avail. Silently, she handed the phone to Fortinbras.

“Is it okay if I put the phone on speaker?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Ophelia said.

Laertes picked up after the third ring. “Hey Ophelia! What’s up! How are you!” he asked cheerily. It broke her heart to have to deliver the bad news.

“Uh, hey. I’m in my room with Fortinbras and you’re on speaker.” Tears were already happening and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

“God, Ophelia, you sound awful,” Laertes voice pitched to worry. “Are you okay? Do I need to come over?”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m just--” Ophelia couldn’t finish the sentence because she was sobbing.

“She’s safe now, but uh, if it’s okay with her, you might want to come over.” Fortinbras stole a quick look at Ophelia. At least her tears weren’t freezing to her cheeks anymore. It was normal. This was normal. 

“Okay, okay,” Laertes breathed. “Don’t get off the line. I’m on my way over. What happened?”

“Mom,” Ophelia sobbed. “I was trying to...and then it was cold...and then…” She trailed away when she realized she was being incomprehensible. She looked pleadingly at Fortinbras.

“Uh, what she means is, as far as I can tell, she and Horatio were trying to talk to Hamlet’s dad’s ghost earlier and something went wrong and then the ghost of her mom showed up.”

“Well fuck.” Ophelia could hear the sounds of the city swirling around him as he biked to her dorm.

“I don’t know if that actually makes any sense, man.” Fortinbras drummed her fingers nervously against her thighs.

“Uh, sure. Yes and no. But she’s safe? You’re safe, right?” He asked.

“I’m safe,” Ophelia said, hugging Babadook against her chest. She tried to speak again, but it was similarly unintelligible, so she let Fortinbras take the reins until Laertes was actually here.

“What other information can you give me?” Laertes asked.

“Horatio was kinda like freaking out about being able to be near her and that she didn’t want her to freeze and stuff like that. Um, he said Ariche and the Dirty War and it was really freaky after he held a crucifix. I don’t know...I just don’t know what to make of that.”

Ophelia tensed and she felt Fortinbras press against her. The warmth unlocked her muscles and she tried to let herself relax again.

Laertes sighed and his voice was pained. “That would be our mother. Listen, we can explain more once I get there, which will be in about three minutes. As best you can tell, do you think this was real?”

Fortinbras twitched nervously and held the tips of Ophelia’s fingers that weren’t burned. It was welcome touch and Ophelia wished she could have it forever. She silently motioned for Fortinbras to sit next to her, which she did. It earned Ophelia a small smile and that was enough.

“Yeah, I do.” Fortinbras said calmly. Ophelia was able to rest her head on her shoulder and count her breaths.

Minutes later, Laertes burst into her room. “Oh my god,” he said as he surveyed the scene. It must have looked bad, even if Ophelia didn’t quite look like a corpse anymore. Laertes gingerly stepped around the glass shards and sat at the foot of Ophelia’s bed. “It was real, wasn’t it?”

His eyes locked immediately on the shape of the cross burned into Ophelia’s skin. If she had truly been with it, she might have wondered if it would scar, but all that mattered now was Fortinbras’ touch and her brother’s presence. The two of them wouldn’t let anything hurt her. Fortinbras wrapped an arm around her shoulder and Ophelia knew she was safe.

“Are you in this for the long haul?” Laertes asked Fortinbras.

She held Ophelia a little tighter and nodded. “Yes. She’s my friend.”

“Okay, to make a long story short and less traumatic, our mom, Ariche, was involved as a student in the Dirty War in Mexico. After the students lost, she fled here, met our dad and had a pretty normal life. But apparently some people didn’t forget and somehow she ended up frozen in the woods.”

Ophelia curled into Fortinbras’ side. It had been so long. Eleven years and it still hurt. It shouldn’t hurt anymore. “Two miles from our house,” she added.

Laertes sighed. “Two miles from our house.” Fortinbras must have looked suitably horrified because he added. “We were in Mexico City at the time then boarding school.”

“I’m so sorry,” Fortinbras stammered. “That’s horrible.”

“It,” Laertes started, “was what it was. And now...I don’t know what this is. I don’t know how to help.” His own mild version of panic caught in his throat.

“Horatio said she didn’t seem angry, but…” Fortinbras trailed away.

“I asked her for help. She came from my necklace,” Ophelia whimpered as she touched the burn.

“Don’t,” Fortinbras gently pulled her hand away. “I think Horatio had it last. Maybe he took it with him. On accident,” she added quickly.

“I need it,” Ophelia tried to pull herself up, but Fortinbras and Laertes held her down. “That has Mom in it, Lae. I need it back, I can’t leave her alone. She’s lonely and cold. Laertes, we can’t leave her alone.”

Fortinbras pressed her nose into Ophelia’s hair and breathed steadily. Her warm breath was comforting. “She knows it’s not your fault,” she whispered.

“I’ll get it from Horatio tomorrow, okay?” Laertes said. “It was probably just an accident.”

“I don’t want her to be alone. I miss her so much.” Ophelia let Fortinbras hold her.

“I’m sure she misses you too,” Laertes said.

“I’m tired,” she yawned. “I want to sleep for real this time.” For all of its depth and darkness, hypothermic sleep was not particularly restful. Ophelia could feel both Laertes and Fortinbras tense under the blankets. “It’s okay. I’m not cold anymore.” Fortinbras reluctantly began to pull away. “But please don’t leave?” She begged.

“I won’t,” Fortinbras said as she settled back down beside her.

“You too?” She asked Laertes.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he said with a small smile.

With the lights turned off and Fortinbras and Laertes safely pressed against her, Ophelia closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift somewhere close to sleep. It was hard to let herself go completely, which meant that she felt Fortinbras wrap her arm across her chest and snuggle into the side of her hair. It was almost like a kiss, and for now, that could be enough.

* * *

It was warm in the bed. Not unpleasantly so, not hot, but warm. Hamlet was warm and his skin was warm, bared to the bedsheets, and the space between Horatio’s bones and the first layer of muscle was as warm as the thirty-second day of spring. Gentle light and the first hints of flowers’ breath on the tender wind and the hum of a city hesitantly opening its windows, loosening the life inside to a new beginning.

He’d been right, Horatio noted with a dull kind of surprise. Hamlet had made everything feel right again.

It would be easy to lie here forever. The natural state of things was to remain with his arms gently wrapped around Hamlet, matching the rise and fall of his chest, watching the morning light play golden patterns across his beautiful bedhead. To wait for Hamlet to rise and smile and kiss him and talk about whatever thoughts came to him, anything just to hear his inflections and the subtle under-turnings of his enrapturing voice.

Horatio broke Hamlet’s rule and got out of bed without waking him.

The tile of the bathroom floor was frigid against his feet but Horatio forced himself to stand flat-footed as he studied the pallor of his face in the mirror, the tangles of his dull hair, the crookedness of his mouth. He pulled his sweater off and deposited to one side, allowing his eyes to float down to the crucifix on his chest. He probably shouldn’t be wearing it. He’d slipped it on last night when he was leaving the dorm, though he had no clear intention for taking it. Just that he had to get it as far away from Ophelia as possible. A task made harder by the fact that the thing inside absolutely didn’t want to be taken.

The cross should have been cold but it was burning. Horatio fiddled with it, catching flashes of incomprehensible emotions with the shine of the silver. According to tradition, crucifixes could be used to ward off gjenganger. Horatio smiled palely into the mirror. It would be terribly ironic if the ghost of Ophelia’s mother could be used to ward off the walking corpse of Hamlet’s dad.

“‘The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.’” He said. Then, “‘I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.’”

F. Scott Fitzgerald. Applicable to every scenario, ranging from watching your friends be relentlessly tormented by the bloody ghosts of their dead parents to exploring a new relationship with the boy you’d really love to love but don’t.

“This sucks.” Horatio said to the empty bathroom. “Life sucks. I want to be a goldfish.” He giggled a bit. “I should just drop out of school and live at home. Skip the city and run away. Go live in Greenland on a sheep farm.”

Unrealistic, of course. Horatio would never abandon his friends like that. And he wasn’t so arrogant as to assume that he was one of those writers who could make their name without the prestige of a good school behind them. No, running was never an option.

“I’m scared.” Horatio confessed to the boy in the mirror. The other made no proper response so Horatio slipped his sweater back on and walked out to the kitchen.

Considering it was about six-thirty in the morning, Horatio was not expecting to meet anyone along the way. However, Osric was already in the apartment, making eggs and bacon.

“Good morning, Horatio.” Osric said smoothly.

“Uh, hey.” Horatio hovered awkwardly by the edge of the counter, trying to decide what to say to the stiff butler or if he even wanted to talk at all. “Thank you for coming to pick me up yesterday.” He said after a pause.

“Of course.” Osric said. “Mr. Kierkegaard insisted.”

There was a certain level of coldness in his voice, unable to be disguised even by formality. Horatio felt his heart stutter. Right. Osric still thought he was beating Hamlet and with what happened with Ophelia yesterday…

Osric put his spatula aside suddenly and turned to Horatio. “Miss Cortez’ friend requested that I ask you about the events which transpired last night.” His even tone was a challenge.

“She did?” Horatio asked, one hand unconsciously drifting to his chest, though whether it was to clutch the cross necklace or cover the invisible bullet wound, he didn’t know.

“She did.” Osric confirmed. “She said, specifically, that I should ask about ghosts. Now, I know that of late you and Mr. Kierkegaard have been pursuing some more…interesting methods by which to investigate the death of Mr. Kierkegaard’s father. And while I truly do appreciate you striving to help him cope with these unfortunate circumstances and find a closure,” he shot a pointed look at Horatio, as if to say  _those better be your intentions_,  “I cannot help but think that this has begun to get out of hand.”

Horatio shuffled in place. “How do you mean?” He asked calmly.

Osric sighed. “Simply put, I do not believe it is worth indulging Hamlet’s more radical beliefs in this case. Whatever your own may be.”

_You think I’m making this up? _ Horatio intended to ask. What he said, however, was, “Letta tried to call you.”

Osric blinked at Horatio before his eyes narrowed. “Horatio, I’m afraid I don’t-” He began to say.

“He tried to call you.” Horatio stared at Osric, trying desperately to figure out where the words were coming from even as they spilled from his mouth. “He wanted to call you but he couldn’t because it happened too fast. He was terrified that something was going to happen to Hamlet too.”

Osric was trained not to respond to uncertainties. He was, after all, Hamlet’s babysitter. Still, his mouth turned and his brows seemed to crease with worry. “What happened too fast?” He asked plainly.

Horatio forced himself to stop and focus on the source of his ramblings, a tugging in the pit of his stomach. He frowned and, with no small trepidation, grabbed it tight. An ache bloomed along the space of his ribs almost instantly. “He was shot here first.” Horatio pointed his lower collar bone, just below the ear. “It shattered the bone and caused a lot of the bleeding. I didn’t have time to scream for help. Then there was another one here.” He dragged the finger down to just above his heart. “And it passed out here.” He reached around and tapped his back. The spot there was painful to even brush over and his fingers seemed sticky and wet when he pulled away. “When I fell, I landed on my right side and I was bleeding everywhere. I didn’t realize people had that much blood in them.”

“I…” Osric’s façade hardened. “Yes, that is an accurate summery of the coroner’s report, if a bit theatrical. I’m assuming Hamlet let you read them, after all?”

“No.” Horatio said slowly. “You held them for the night, remember? And he never got the chance to read them.”

A shred of worried awareness appeared in Osric’s sharp eyes and he opened his mouth.

“Letta trusted you more than anyone, you know.” Horatio cut him off. “He felt a lot of love for you.”

Osric snapped his jaw closed as the two stared at each other for a moment. As the tension swirled, the phantom pains along Horatio’s chest disintegrated. “I’m sorry.” Horatio said. The clever certainty in his voice was suddenly absent. “I’m really sorry.”

As Osric continued to exercise his mild version of a distressed gawk, Horatio speed back to the bedroom. His efforts to shimmy under the covers proved to be pointless as Hamlet woke up midway through.

“Horatio?” Hamlet said sleepily. “What are you doing?”

“Just…” Horatio glanced nervously towards the door. “I need to get up soon.”

When he settled enough to properly look over Hamlet, it was to see the other wide awake and appraising. “We were supposed to look at the coroner’s reports this morning.” Hamlet said pointedly. His dark eyes were liquid in the light and Horatio felt miserable once more. He already knew what lay inside that manila folder.

“I know.” Horatio said tiredly. “And we will. But I’ve got class at 7:30 and I can’t skip again. We’ll look at them when I get back at 9:30, okay?”

Hamlet looked entirely displeased with this scenario but, as he began to protest, something stopped him short. “Are you doing okay?” He asked, tone touched with honest caring, and it made Horatio’s heart flutter oddly against the back of his throat.

Rather than answering, Horatio leaned forward and kissed Hamlet ardently. He hummed into Hamlet’s soft lips as the other let his hands run lazily up Horatio’s sides, just gentle enough to be a feeling without becoming true sensation. He sighed when they reached the edge of his collarbone.

Horatio reluctantly broke the kiss and smiled, the undivided presence of Hamlet putting him at ease. “I will be.” He said with soft confidence. “Are you?”

“I will be too once we read that report.” Hamlet said, slightly pouty, and it made Horatio laugh.

“As soon as I get back. Promise.” Horatio said as he kissed Hamlet again quickly. “Bathroom?”

“Bathroom.” Hamlet confirmed as he carefully eased himself from the bed. Horatio winced slightly as he noted that Hamlet still wasn’t wearing a bandage on his right wrist but made himself ignore it. Osric would reconcile that soon enough, he was sure.

They passed their morning routine with Hamlet listing out possible further research topics from over the shower steam while Horatio noted them down.

“And we’ll need to look into blessed salt!” Hamlet called over the curtain. He paused. “Do they bless salt?”

Horatio shrugged. “Priests will bless anything. My aunt once got her Pomeranian blessed.”

Hamlet snorted and Horatio heard bottles being shifted around. “Oh and write down a reminder to get a plane ticket to Paris.” He called.

“Got it. Two plane tickets to Paris.”

“One plane ticket.” Hamlet repeated firmly. The water turned off and Hamlet stuck out a hand. Horatio grabbed the in-shower hair brush and handed it to him. As the water flicked back on, he wrote  _two plane tickets_ on the makeshift list.

By some greater miracle, Horatio managed to make it out of the apartment and to his dramatic structure seminar on time. He was missing the homework but a few sympathetic references to late nights and relationships troubles got him out of that fast enough.

It was nice being able to focus on something besides death for a short while and Horatio drank the material in, allowing himself to be even more of an insufferable know-it-all than usual as he lectured his group mates through the proper interpretation of Aristotle’s  _Poetics_.  So involved was he in defending excessive flaws in the protagonist as an essential feature to great tragedy, that he almost missed when a hand landed on his shoulder. Or, he would have, if the cross against his chest didn’t rapidly begin to simmer.

“Hey guys.” Laertes’ charmingly apologetic voice froze Horatio stiff. “Sorry to interrupt but can I borrow Horatio here for a minute?”

“Please do.” Hannah said with exhausted enthusiasm while his other group mates nodded.

Horatio didn’t bother to protest as Laertes dragged him by the collar of his jacket past his confused professor, instead devoting most of his focus to reminding himself that his sorta friend had no reason to be mad at him anymore. He and Ophelia were okay. Weren’t they? Then again, Horatio did bring Hamlet into her dorm with his panicky nonsense last night. And he’d left her. With a pang of guilt, he remembered he had left her.

Laertes released him in the hall, stepping back to allow Horatio to right himself. As soon as Horatio was steady, Laertes stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. “Hey, man.” He said as casually as if he were meeting Horatio for coffee.

“Hi?” Horatio said. “Why?”

“I wanted to check in.” Laertes shrugged. “Ophelia said that you were really shaken up last night.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Yeah, well, you know.” Horatio eyed Laertes uncomfortably, unsure how much he knew and sure that he didn’t want to discuss the finer parts of last night’s meltdown with an acquaintance. “I’m good now so…”

“Good, good.” Laertes said breezily. Horatio frowned as he noted the way Laertes’ hungry gaze flickered around his neck. He pulled his collar up.

“So,” Horatio took a step back towards the classroom.

“So,” Laertes agreed as he followed.

“ _So_, ” Horatio emphasized. “If, uh, if that’s it. I’m going to head back to class. I’ll text Ophelia later to check in.” A hint of desperate worry squirmed up into the base of his throat as he snagged the door handle. “She’s okay?”

“She’s…” Laertes hesitated, “okay. Yeah.”

“Good.” Horatio said, unconvinced. Definitely needed to text her later. “So--”

“Did you happen to see the necklace?” Laertes interjected into Horatio’s escape. “Ophelia’s crucifix? Fortinbras said she saw you pick it up.”

It was like Laertes had pressed an activation switch and it was all Horatio could do to prevent himself from ripping the cross from his neck. He held his right hand by his side as a bolt of unnaturally vivid longing coursed through his mind, frenzied as a cold snap. Horatio wanted to be near Laertes and Ophelia, she needed to be, more than she needed the air he breathed.

He needed to protect them both.

“No.” Horatio delivered the first convincing lie of his entire life. “I didn’t see it. Sorry. Can I go back to class now?”

Laertes’ shoulders slumped in visible disappointment. “Yeah, um. Yeah. Sure. Let me know if you see it?”

“Of course.” Horatio smiled smoothly. “See you later, Laertes.”

For once, there was not a trace of guilt in his gut at the lie.

He strolled back into class. It was only nine but he packed up to leave early regardless. He wanted to get back to the penthouse before Hamlet got impatient and opened the report without him. He still had a lot of work to do convincing Hamlet to let him come to Paris, after all.

* * *

“Hey, Guildencrantz or whatever, are you, like, good at computers?” Hamlet said as soon as he heard the phone pick up.

“Guildenstern,” the man on the other line said. “And that would be my brother.”

“But like,” Hamlet eyed the still unopened folder desperately. “How good?”

“He made his own computer and shit. I don’t know,” Guilden-what’s-his-face said.

“But can he navigate the sketchier parts of the web?” Hamlet asked, pacing in front of the couch. “Also, did Horatio happen to show up? His first class ended about three minutes ago.”

“Dude, it’s so fucking early and you woke me up. Who even are you?” The other man said irritably. Hamlet paused.

“Horatio’s boyfriend,” he said, the words unnatural yet welcome on his lips. “Is Rosenstern well acquainted with the more complex functions of the internet, or not?”

“Wait, Horatio is getting laid? I thought he was totally tangled up about that one actor guy from his play,” Guildenstern said. “Also my brother is Rosencrantz.”

“Well, I am that actor guy from his play,” Hamlet said sharply. “And I don’t care what his name is, just answer my question!”

“Uh, yeah. He knows the deep web as well as a few programming languages,” Guildenstern said stiffly. “You’re kind of a jerk. You know that, right?”

“Suck my dick,” Hamlet said coldly. “What’s your brother’s number?”

“I’m not telling you his number,” Guildenstern said. There was a break. “How did you get my number?”

“Internet. Your brother lacks an online presence.” Hamlet resumed pacing. Horatio’s class let out ten minutes ago.

“Yeah, he covers his tracks,” Guildenstern said with pride.

“Yeah, yeah, how would he feel about going to France?” Hamlet said with mild disgust.

“What?”

“France. The country in Europe. Shaped like a weird square.” Hamlet groaned. “Do you think he’d like an all-expenses paid trip there?”

“I mean, sure,” Guildenstern said awkwardly. “But probably not alone. He’s kind of shy.”

Hamlet sighed. “Would you both like to go to France?”

“Why?”

“I need help with the deep web,” Hamlet said. “Or at least, I might. And I need to go to France. Preferably as I’m figuring out the internet.”

“We have classes and stuff,” Guildenstern said.

“You’re, what, music majors? Just say that you’re going there for professional development or whatever. I know you get to take leaves of absence for that stuff.” Fifteen minutes since the end of Horatio’s class. He was getting twitchy.

“Why would we go with you?” Guildenstern asked suspiciously.

“Because my mother and recently deceased father are both billionaires and I can pay you quite a lot of money if you manage to solve some internet mysteries for me.” Hamlet said earnestly. He was agitated and anxious now that they were past the albeit-optimistic time at which Horatio would have been back.

“How much money?” Guildenstern asked.

“The most I’m allowed to write a check for without parental approval is about 100K.” Hamlet said as he continued pacing. He wanted to call Horatio. He missed him. It had been just over two and a half hours since he last saw him and that was starting to feel very long.

“Dude, that’s like...both of our tuitions for the year,” Guildenstern said with justified shock. Hamlet always felt slightly uncomfortable with the sheer quantity of money at his family’s disposal. Mostly since his mother’s, at least, was blood money.

“Yes, and it can be yours if you just get your brother to agree to fly with me to France. Hell, you can stay in the cushiest, most lavish hotel you please.” Hamlet pleaded. He just wanted a guarantee. He needed to know that he could endanger someone other than Horatio in this foolish quest for a professional medium.

“I’ll have to talk to him,” Guildenstern said. “But probably? If Horatio is dating you then you can’t be, like, a murderer or some shit. He’s too straight-laced.”

Hamlet opted not to tell him he was nursing self-inflicted wounds of dubious origin. “Yup. Feel free to call this number back once you do,” Hamlet said quickly. He could hear movement outside his door, and his priority list was rapidly changing.

“Cool, cool,” Guildenstern said. “Talk to you later.”

“Yup. Bye.” Hamlet said as he hung up. He stared at the door, waiting. Finally there was a knock. Thirty minutes after the class let out. “It’s unlocked!” He called, quickly sitting on the couch and pretending that he wasn’t waiting desperately like some cheap mistress.

“Hey,” Horatio said as he came in. Hamlet forced down his impulse to run across the room and kiss him. He stayed poised on the sofa like the debutante his mother taught him to be.

“How was class?” Hamlet asked, suffering with each additional second it took for Horatio to remove his coat and walk over.

“It was good,” Horatio said with an exhausted smile. He finally sat beside him. Hamlet only barely managed not to crawl into his lap. It was causing him physical distress, how badly he wanted to touch him. That was a bad sign; a sign he needed him. Horatio didn’t need him. “Medical files?” Horatio asked.

“Yeah,” Hamlet nodded, robotically standing to his feet. It was hard to tear himself away now that Horatio was near him, but he needed to know what happened to his father. He crossed the room and lifted the still-sealed manila folder.

As he sat back down, he found he couldn’t bring himself to open it. It was simultaneously too light and unbearably heavy; not enough and nearly too much. What could have been bad enough that his mother wouldn’t have subjected him to it? She’d never cared about his mental health before. More importantly, how could his father’s death, the worst thing to ever happen to him since taking up modeling at fifteen, be condensed into a matter of paper and ink? Would there be photos? Would he need to stare at his father’s body, once so familiar, in all of it’s deathly hollowness? He couldn’t break the seal. He wasn’t ready, not if it meant looking at images.

“What’s up?” Horatio broke him from his paralysis with a steady hand on his shoulder. Hamlet blinked at him.

“I’m scared,” he said without thinking. Vulnerability. He was exposing a soft spot in the armor. Granted, there were many and this was the most obvious to begin with, but still. The leap from here to _ ‘I love you’ _ was not so large as he might like, especially when Horatio wrapped his arms around him and kissed him so softly on the lips.

“I’m here,” Horatio said patiently. Hamlet swallowed whatever words were forming on his tongue. Nothing else needed to be said. Not now, not until the tables shifted in his favor. “We don’t need to open them now if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” Hamlet said quickly. He handed Horatio the file. “Can you read it to me? If there are pictures...I don’t want to see them. Yet.”

“Okay,” Horatio said kindly. Hamlet tensed as he broke the seal. He let himself clutch his arm, reassured by the solidity of it. Sure, Horatio wasn’t as beefy as, say, Laertes, but he was strong and warm. Comforting was probably the best word. Hamlet leaned against his shoulder and closed his eyes, forcing himself not to look at the file.

“Is it bad?” Hamlet asked as a long silence fell between them.

“It’s...pretty bad,” Horatio said with shockingly little surprise. “I’m putting all the documents on the table. The photos will stay in the folder.”

“Okay,” Hamlet said quietly. “Can you tell me when it’s safe to open my eyes?”

“It’s safe,” Horatio said, kissing his forehead. Hamlet opened his eyes, picking up the papers on the table. He climbed into Horatio’s lap as he read them, anxiety spiking out of the comfortable gray-area of fear into the sharp white of panic. He rested his head on his chest as he read the descriptions of his father’s body, relying on the rhythm of Horatio’s heartbeat to ground him as he took in the graphic medical jargon of the report. Shattered clavicle and solar plexus. Bullet through the left ventricle; punctured lung. All of it was enough to make him wish he really had hit true with his own injuries. He took a sharp breath as he turned over to the ballistic reports. Lots of numbers and models he didn’t understand. Something about serial numbers. He didn’t realize he was crying until Horatio wiped a tear from his cheek.

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said weakly. Horatio kissed the top of his head.

“I know it’s bad,” Horatio said seriously, holding him tighter.

“It’s fine,” Hamlet said as he choked back a frustrated sob. He hated how little he knew about guns and bullets and the such.

“It’s okay if it isn’t,” Horatio said gently. Hamlet hated how sweet he was. It made him cry harder. He let Horatio take the files away from him as he ceased being able to hide the distress and tears. Horatio pressed his lips against his forehead. “What’s up?”

“I don’t want him to be dead,” Hamlet said as he wiped his eyes. He felt a sinking permanence to it. Sure, he knew his father was dead. He was at the funeral. But this was medical documentation of his death and injuries. This was science. Irrefutable, even with the whole ghost thing.

“I know,” Horatio said quietly, kissing his temple.

“You never met him,” Hamlet said miserably. Of all his partners, Horatio was the one he wished he could have introduced his father to. Ophelia was great, sure. But he’d been in love with Horatio for what? Months? Years? How do you draw the line with someone without whom you’d never want to live? He was his best friend since first year, and he’d known he wanted him as a lover since at least last spring, and yet he’d never been formally introduced to his father.

“I know you loved him,” Horatio said with another kiss. “I know he was a good man.”

“I want to be like him,” Hamlet whispered, holding Horatio’s hand against his chest. “But I’m never going to be,” he added sadly. “Ophelia was right.”

“You can be good,” Horatio reassured.

Hamlet wanted to go further; tell him how awful he felt all the time when he remembered the shit he did in order to protect his fragile sense of self. But that wasn’t something he could tell him now. Horatio was his safe friend, the one who could see him at his lowest points but never at his worst. There was no sense in telling him how awful he was before coming back to the U.S. for school. Horatio had faith in his ability to change, and he was too selfish to tell him he was wrong. He wasn’t good. At best he was a consequence of being introduced to vanity at a young age. At worst, he was a self-absorbed aristocrat who would never really be capable of love. Neither was appropriate for what he wanted, which was for Horatio to love him. But then again, it wasn’t like he deserved it. Either way, he leaned against him, riding out the sudden wave of dread that took over him.

“Horatio?” Hamlet asked quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Talk to me,” Hamlet said, closing his eyes again. “About the play. Anything.” Hamlet just needed to hear him talk. Otherwise he might start crying again, or worse, run himself into the catastrophic realm of hopeless self-loathing. Sure, Horatio might not be able to love him. But if Ophelia was any evidence, he could probably hate him.


	20. Opposites of Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia looks for the cross. Horatio tries mind control. Hamlet's a tease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Trigger warnings for brief mentions of death/self-harm

“He said he doesn’t have the crucifix, Ophie, I don’t know what you want me to do about it. Horatio can’t lie,” Laertes scowled into the phone. Ophelia could practically feel the facial expression from a mile away.

“Do you think he’s lying?” Ophelia said. She felt bad as Fortinbras perked up and into the conversation. It was one thing to skip class because she almost froze to death, it was another entirely to bring Fortinbras down with her. She had offered, Ophelia reminded herself. She wanted to stay. Fortinbras had held her hand and promised she’s keep her company. She wanted to stay.

Ophelia shook the nerves from her head as Laertes stammered over the phone. “It’s just a little strange. He seemed...off. I don’t know. Like he was terrified of me.”

“You did kinda threaten him over me,” Ophelia gave a small smile as Fortinbras motioned for her to put the phone on speaker. “Fortinbras is on the line,” she warned her brother, jokingly.

“Yeah, listen. I’m like, pretty sure I saw him pick it up. It was definitely in his hands when he talked to me about the war. I don’t…” she glanced quickly at Ophelia. “He wouldn’t, right? He loves you a lot. There’s no way anyone would find that acceptable, especially after what happened. He probably just put it somewhere weird. He was pretty out of it.”

Ophelia could hear Laertes huff over the phone. “Anyway,’” he growled. “Have you two had a nice day in?”

“Been doing research,” Ophelia said.

“Ghost research,” Fortinbras added. “We’re trying to figure out if they have rules or not. As far as we can tell, no one knows and our sources are sketchy.”

“Why would it matter if ghosts have rules or not?” Laertes asked, he sounded exhausted.

“Well, Horatio wondered if she was a Dgafgdgfgder or whatever, and that wouldn’t really make sense for a Mexican ghost. So, maybe different ghosts have different rules based on belief or locale or something. I don’t know man. It’s like impossible to fact check. It could mean we could try to contact Ariche...your mother, on Dia de Muertos without fear of accidental freezing.” Fortinbras sighed and threw her legs over Ophelia’s. She blushed.

“Fortinbras, I don’t think ghosts are like some fancy breed of cichlids,” Laertes sighed and audibly threw himself into a chair. “Plus, we’re still trusting what Horatio says about this?” Unbearably tense silence. “Okay, I’ll let it go. Hit me up if you find anything that’s definitely going to kill us.”

“Will do,” Ophelia said. “I’m going to go home tomorrow night with Fortinbras and talk to Abuelita. I’m...worried.”

“Because?”

“Because Raramuri ghosts are supposed to herald illness for the haunted’s loved ones.” Ophelia bit back the bile that rose in her throat. She knew it was probably just a fable, but the fear didn’t go away.

“Ophie, a lot of ghosts are supposed to do that. Hamlet hasn’t dropped dead yet, so it probably isn’t true. But go talk to her anyway. It’ll be good for you, and I bet she’d love to meet Fortinbras.”

“And I would love to meet her,” Fortinbras cut in.

“That’s wonderful,” Ophelia could practically hear Laertes smile over the phone. “Finally there’s one person who cares about Ophelia as much as we do.”

“Lae!” She gasped.

“I speak only the truth. Have fun with Abuelita. I don’t think Dad’s gonna be home because of some stuff with the Met. He hasn’t told me much, I’ll update you when he does,” he said.

“Oh, can you not tell him that happened?” Ophelia asked.

“I...I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t think he could...yeah. Yeah, I won’t. Tell Abuelita I love her. I love you, Ophelia.” And Laertes hung up the line.

There was silence, and for once there weren’t tears either. The usual strangle hold of loneliness that enveloped Ophelia when she hung up the phone was gone. The only thing that was off was the lack of metal around her neck. First Hamlet’s necklace, then her grandmother’s. How was she supposed to explain that? It went missing? It jumped off her neck and ran away? It didn’t make sense. It should be here. It was here, Ophelia just hadn’t found it yet.

“You’re still worried.” Fortinbras said as she pushed Ophelia’s hair out of her eyes. That was probably a thing teammates did all the time. The rising and falling of her heart felt almost the same. “Do you want me to look behind the bookshelf again?”

“No, no, I just… yeah, can you please?” Ophelia hid her face in her arms as Fortinbras left the bed. How pathetic was this? There’s a word for someone when they kept trying to do things over and over and over to no avail. An idiot. That’s it. And she was dragging Fortinbras down with her.

“Now you stop it with that look,” Fortinbras commanded from across the room. “I want to be here. I want to help you.”

“Am I…”

“That readable? Yes you are.” Fortinbras caught a potted plant just before it fell off the shelf.

“I’m sorry, I just feel bad,” Ophelia curled on her side and tightened when Fortinbras sat softly next to her.

“It’s probably because you haven’t like, eaten or anything, my man. There’s chocolate in the fridge, I think. I’ll get some for you.” The way Fortinbras moved was somehow both the most ethereal and human thing Ophelia had ever seen. Six winged and blazing eyed like seraphim. Like no mortal was ever supposed the behold the sight. But it was her soft hair that smelled of clover and grey eyes like the moon that were beautiful.

Fortinbras passed Ophelia the chocolate and her fridge chilled skin brushed against her. She quickly took Fortinbras’ hands in her own before she even had time to process what she had done.

“I...uh...it feels scary. I’m sorry.” Ophelia shook her head.

“No, it’s all good,” Fortinbras flashed her a smile. “It feels nice.”

For once, Ophelia didn’t let go, even as she felt Fortinbras’ skin warm. “I’m still worried.”

“Whatever about?” Fortinbras kept smiling. Like they had known each other forever. Like they were friends.

“You’re helping me so much and I haven’t done anything for you. It’s a terrible job. I’m so damn fragile.”

“Ophelia.” Fortinbras moved closer, so she could see herself reflected in her irises. “This isn’t some sort of transaction. I don’t know whatever the hell Hamlet left you with, but it wasn’t an unpaid bill. That’s not how people...that’s not how I work.” She nudged Ophelia with her shoulder. “You’re my friend and you’re a good friend. I’ve seen you. Everyone can see you.” Fortinbras hugged her, tight. It felt like all of her threads had stopped unraveling, just for a second. “Plus, it’s not a terrible job. At least, it isn’t to me.”

“Why?” Ophelia asked. It felt terrible and like Fortinbras was the only one who could make it better.

“It’s you.”

* * *

“...And then,” Horatio said excitedly, “of course I had to account for  A Rose for Emily  when designing Denton’s mother, that just went without question. The imagery alone is…” He trailed off as Hamlet shifted under his arm. He was asleep. Jeez, how long had Horatio been talking?

With care, Horatio adjusted himself so that Hamlet’s head rested more against his chest and sank down into the couch. He glanced around and grimaced. Not a book in sight. Not even a magazine and the remote for the television was, of course, MIA, which thoroughly exhausted Horatio’s usual list of ‘things I can do without bothering Hamlet’s much needed rest.’ He glanced down. Even in sleep, Hamlet seemed troubled with drawn corners to his mouth and worry lines along his forehead. Horatio wished he could physically smooth them out but as it stood, all he could do was hold Hamlet closer and hope that was enough.

He sighed. “I suppose I can keep talking.” Horatio half whispered. “You never did ask me to stop and it’s supposed to help, right? Talking to people when they’re sleeping?”

He felt more than a bit ridiculous like this. Contrary to popular belief, Horatio didn’t derive much from hearing himself speak. Left alone, he could be silent for days on end without worry.

Still. There was something to be said for the cathartic effects.

“I’m upset with you.” Horatio said to Hamlet seriously. “I want you to take me to France with you but I know you won’t because you’re a stubborn, pig-headed fool who thinks he knows better. You probably think you’re protecting me or something.” He sighed. “Or maybe you just don’t think I can handle it. Which, I guess, would be fair. I haven’t exactly built myself the best track record with this last week.”

Working against the sticky discomfort of shame, Horatio smiled. “Your dad gave me fucking ghost anxiety. I’m honestly impressed. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m always so put together and unshakable and now I feel like any stray breeze or moving planchette is going to send me spiraling.”

Horatio’s smile dropped away as he played nonsensical shapes over Hamlet’s arms with his index finger. “Is this how you feel all the time? You and Ophelia? I kinda hate it. I hope you don’t feel like this all the time.”

“I think I read somewhere that you can unconsciously influence someone’s thoughts by talking to them when they’re sleeping.” He narrowed his gaze down at Hamlet. “You should take me with you.” He whispered intently. “Take Horatio to France so he doesn’t die worrying about you being gone for three weeks or whatever.”

He watched hawklike as Hamlet’s face scrunched up then relaxed.

“Foiled.” Horatio muttered.

He glanced out to the New York skyline, which swam like a mirage in the fading light of evening. “You know,” he let his voice draw back up to normal volume, “about a week ago I was sitting on this very couch pouting because I couldn’t ask you out. It seems like it’s been longer than that. Just a few days…” Hamlet was still wearing those clear bandages, which meant that Horatio could trace the fuzzy remnants of that terrible event. It didn’t scare him quite so much anymore, the sight, but he suspected that was because he was growing used to them. He wished he wasn’t. He wanted their presence to be a shock, a punch in the gut instead of an accepted fact of the world.

“ I don’t like this new reality we’ve made.” He admitted softly. “It’s much harder to live in than the last one. But then,” he tipped his head to better see Hamlet, “this one has you in it so it can’t be too terrible.”

Horatio smiled tiredly as Hamlet twisted his fingers into his shirt. “If you die it’s going to create a lot of problems, you know.” He said matter of factly. “Your mother will have to come here to deal with things and Osric will be a wreck, which is something I can barely even imagine. Plus we both know Ophelia will only blame herself.” He bit his lip. “There’s a chance you might go to hell. That’s what they always told us. People who commit suicide go to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. I mean, I’m not sure if it’s true. It’s probably not true. But on the off chance that it is, then...well it makes things difficult, you see.” Horatio’s tone had taken on a peaceful calm. “Because I can’t exactly let you go to hell alone. And I’d rather not die so…”

He sank as far down into the couch as he could without jostling Hamlet into awareness and tucked the other’s head under his chin. “If you can manage it, let’s just stay here, okay? We can deal with the ghost and your dad’s murder. We can even deal with spiritual vengeance. I’m sure we’ll figure this out. Then, once everything is said and done, we can go back to being semi-normal people again.” He aimed a crooked grin at the air. “I say semi-normal because, naturally, you’re you and I’m me and we’ll never achieve regular people normal.” He rested his cheek on top of Hamlet’s soft hair and sighed. “Then you can make me late for all my classes and explain every single step of your morning and night routines to me and I can sit and read while you monologue at me from your place draped across my lap and everything will be right again.”

Horatio closed his eyes. “Once you get back from Paris, that is.” He conceded miserably.

He took a moment to recompose his feelings into a more bearable shape before leaning in close to Hamlet’s ear. “Take Horatio with you to Paris.” He hissed softly. “He could probably fit in an overhead bin.”

Hamlet’s eyes squeezed as he began to stir in Horatio’s arms. Horatio straightened at once. “And that’s why Edith Wharton was without a doubt having an affair with Teddy Roosevelt.” He asserted.

“I’ve heard this rant before.” Hamlet complained, voice still adorably addled with sleep.

Horatio shrugged. “It’s one of my better ones.” He leaned back against the couch’s arm as Hamlet sat up and rubbed the sleep out his eyes. “How are you feeling?” He asked gently.

“Horrible.” Hamlet said morosely and Horatio was surprised at the honesty. Usually they had to run through at least a few rounds of lies before they hit the truth.

“That’s alright.” Horatio said. He relaxed on the couch once more, silently inviting Hamlet to lean into him but the other barely seemed to notice. When Hamlet stood from the couch, his movements seemed unnaturally stiff on a naturally fluid form. Almost guarded. A chasm of dread split within Horatio as he imagined all the things Hamlet could have heard him say to have caused the change but he quickly filled the gaping space with assurances. He’d checked to make sure Hamlet was asleep. And he’d been quiet. Nothing he said had even been that bad.

“Where are you going?” Horatio asked innocently as Hamlet stretched some of the stiffness out his joints.

“I, uh,” Hamlet shot a look towards the table and the report which lay there, open and spilling messy words like  punctured lung and  dead upon arrival  into the room. Horatio felt a phantom twinge of sympathy as he carefully closed the folder.

“You?” He prompted.

Hamlet shook his head to clear it. “I need to pack.” He said.

“Great.” Horatio smoothed out his shirt as he stood. “Would you like some help?” He valiantly kept any displeasure he felt about the situation out his voice.

Hamlet offered him a distracted smile. “I don’t trust your fashion choices.” He commented.

“Then I’ll make dinner.” Horatio said. “Do you have vodka for penne alla vodka?”

“I probably have some gray goose kicking around somewhere,” Hamlet frowned, “but I don’t want the calories from pasta.”

Horatio rolled his eyes. “I’ll just pour the vodka in a bowl with onions for you.” He said flatly. “Go pack.”

“I also don’t…” Hamlet hesitated, eyes flicking to and fro, but pushed through. “Come sit with me while I pack. You can make dinner afterwards.”

“Sure.” Horatio agreed easily despite the worry.

Hamlet’s packing quickly dissolved into pick out a shirt, lay on Horatio for fifteen minutes, then repeat. Not that Horatio minded. No, with the prospect of Hamlet gone across the ocean for such a long time, it was all he could do not to insist Hamlet stop packing all together and cuddle with him for the rest of the night. Every absence, however brief, seemed a physical pain and had Horatio been of a less restless mind, he would have been concerned about that fact. Never in his life had he so acutely felt the need to be with someone as he did with Hamlet. And he wasn’t even that horny right now.

A few weeks. Just a few weeks in Paris. Horatio pulled the necklace out from beneath his shirt and fiddled with the hot silver chain. A few weeks and in the meantime, he could figure out what to do about the Ophelia’s ghost situation. Then Hamlet would be back again, hopefully with new knowledge on how to put Hamlet Sr.’s ghost to rest, and everything would be alright again.

“Semi-normal.” Horatio muttered to himself as an assurance while he watched Hamlet struggled to stuff yet another book on federal prosecution into his large suitcase.

* * *

The phone rang over dinner, and Hamlet had to excuse himself to take the call in his room so that Horatio wouldn’t realize he was leaving him behind in NYC in favor of flying to Europe with his lackluster roommates. Guilden-Rosen-Crantz-whatever-Stern finally agreed to go with him, though they were more than a little irritated by the fact that they’d need to be on a plane in less than a day. Hamlet wasn’t one for stalling with things like this. He always forgot that normal people viewed international flights as out of the ordinary. He barely listened as whichever twin he was talking to chewed him out for his poor planning skills. He just wanted to go back to Horatio.

“But you will be there at exactly noon for the flight?” Hamlet sighed.

“I mean, we will, but I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have planned this more carefully. We’re going to have to make arrangements with the school after we land!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can I go now? I have important things to do,” Hamlet said as he paced.

“Yeah. How long will we be traveling?” The twin said.

“I’m not sure,” Hamlet said honestly. “You are more than welcome to return before or after I do, just let me know what flight you want and I’ll pay. I’ll probably be there for at least a week.”

“Okay,” whichever man was on the other line said thoughtfully. “I’ll talk to Guildenstern about what he wants to do and how long we should stay.”

“Wonderful,” Hamlet said flatly. “I need to go. Please don’t call me again until tomorrow morning.” He hung up before he could be asked another question.

“What was that about?” Horatio asked as he looked up from the dishes. It was odd having someone other than Osric do them. It felt very domestic.

“Travel plans,” Hamlet made a point of sounding very relaxed. Horatio’s body language tightened a bit but he made no show of arguing.

“When do you leave?” Horatio asked calmly, pointedly staring at the now-clean dishes as he dried them off.

“Tomorrow. Noon.” Hamlet said, picking anxiously at the bandage on his other arm. It was peeling slightly already, which meant it had to go.

“So soon?” Horatio slipped up and allowed a tinge of surprised anxiety to color his voice.

“Yes,” Hamlet channeled the sudden pang of empathetic stress into trained aloofness, draping himself leisurely in a chair. He smirked at Horatio. “Why? Are you going to miss me?” The smirk lingered as he watched the familiar air of self-conscious defiance return to Horatio’s posture. A welcome return to their old equilibrium.

“I’ll miss having the lead at rehearsal,” Horatio grumbled. Not quite what Hamlet was hoping for in his heart of hearts, but it was more comfortable than the guilt of leaving Horatio behind. Hamlet stood in a graceful motion and crossed the room to stand beside him.

“Are your hands clean?” Hamlet asked. Dishes always disgusted him.

“I just did the dishes,” Horatio raised a brow at him.

“But are they clean,” Hamlet stressed, frowning slightly. Horatio seemed to catch on, since he turned and washed them quickly. Hamlet waited for him to dry them off before he took his hands and placed them on his hips. The air between them changed; a new tension taking up space alongside the conflict about the flight. Hamlet held Horatio’s face lightly, smirking as he watched his gaze soften with desire. “Will you miss me?” Hamlet whispered again.

“Yes,” Horatio said with a shaky breath. Hamlet smiled, content enough with the answer even if it was from lust rather than love. He kissed Horatio’s lips slowly, making sure to draw him into the sensation and heat of it. He pulled away as he felt his hands tighten on his hips and the bulge of his arousal through his jeans.

“I need to finish packing,” Hamlet said with a cruel grin. He released Horatio and headed to the bedroom. Sure, it wasn’t what either of them really wanted. But the first rule of seduction was to leave them wanting more. And he needed Horatio to want him enough that he’d sit tight and forgive him for the fact he was about to disappear. If Horatio’s heart wasn’t going to love him, at least he could get some devotion from his body.

Horatio trailed him into the bedroom, sitting on the floor by the bed. He was waiting for him to break down and abandon the packing. Hamlet could tell from the hazy boredom in his eyes. Horatio was used to that now; that he’d say he had to do something and then abandon it in favor of satisfying their shared hunger for each other’s bodies. But that game was done. If Horatio wanted something, he’d have to start asking for it. Otherwise Hamlet really  would be the cheap mistress of his nightmares, hanging on his every word and begging him for his attention.

“Do you want to come to bed?” Horatio finally asked. Hamlet glanced at his phone. It was only barely past seven.

“I have to pack my carry-on bag,” Hamlet said with false innocence. He could afford to make Horatio wait. He needed to. Whatever happened tonight had to be good enough to keep Horatio willing to wait.

“You can pack it later,” Horatio offered. Hamlet returned to the task of sorting his various lotions into their respective bags. He heard Horatio stand, and within seconds he felt his hands on his hips again. He shuddered as Horatio kissed the back of his neck.

“I need to get everything sorted before bed,” Hamlet whispered. Horatio’s fingertips found their way under his shirt, pressing gently against his skin. It was almost enough to tempt him away from his goal of forcing Horatio to shove him up against the wall and screwing him hard. Almost, but not quite. Hamlet kept sorting things into bags while Horatio kissed his neck and shoulders.

Hamlet jumped slightly as his phone went off again. Horatio released him enough so that he could dig it out of his pocket. He glared at the caller ID, but decided it would be best to take it.

“Mother,” Hamlet said stiffly. Horatio still held his hips, but his kisses were now reassurances rather than seductions.

“I saw that you bought plane tickets home,” his mother said on the other line. “Osric didn’t tell me anything about you returning. Are you unwell? Should I contact the hospital?”

“I’m simply visiting Paris on my way to the south coast,” Hamlet said coldly.

“What’s in the Mediterranean? I haven’t heard of any major shows or events going on there,” his mother said tensely.

“I’m visiting an acquaintance,” Hamlet wanted to pace, but Horatio held him in place. “I’ll be staying at the Paris house for two nights, one on the day I land and one on the way back.”

“Wonderful,” his mother said, actually sounding relieved. “I’ll let Claudius know. I saw you bought two other tickets. Are your friends coming? What about your girlfriend?”

“She won’t be coming on this trip,” Hamlet said stiffly. “I’m paying for a couple of people who did a favor for me.”

“What kind of favor?” His mother asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hamlet said sharply.

“Darling, you know I’m worried about you,” she said in what might have been genuine concern. “Who are you associating with now?”

“Musicians,” Hamlet chewed the inside of his cheek.

“What kind? I certainly hope you mean the respectable kind and not the garage band pot-heads that are so common in the U.S.”

“Mother,” Hamlet took a warning tone. “I need to pack.”

“Alright,” his mother finally swayed. “What time can I expect you?”

“Late. Probably around one or two in the morning French time,” Hamlet said quickly. “I need to go. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow. Do be sure to wear something from this year’s collection,” his mother added quickly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hamlet sighed. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she said. He hung up and placed the phone on the counter.

“Are you alight?” Horatio asked, massaging his side gently. Hamlet felt himself blush slightly as he kissed the tender spot between his jaw and his neck.

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said, slightly more breathlessly than he would have liked. Packing. He needed to pack. Drawing on all of his stores of resistance he resumed sorting his toiletries.

“Are you sure?” Horatio asked half-heartedly, his capacity for worry evidently limited by the current state of his loins.

“Quite,” Hamlet said idly, zipping up the bags and easily shrugging off Horatio’s hands as he packed them into the larger suitcase. He smiled to himself as he stole a glance at Horatio, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. He looked like it was taking quite a lot of mental restraint for him to stand there and look concerned.

“Are you done packing?” Horatio asked, only partially managing to mask the impatience in his voice. Hamlet grinned as he turned away from him, making an effort to disrobe himself with effortless sensuality. He wrapped his plush robe around himself and pulled on his silk pajama pants. He could practically feel the frustration rolling off Horatio as he turned back to face him, which was what he wanted. He wanted to be wanted. Ideally needed. And if he couldn’t get that with all the romantic yearning he desired he could at least get it by toying with Horatio’s borderline-obsessive lust.

“I think I’m craving wine,” Hamlet said with a delicate smirk. “Cabernet or Pinot Noir?”


	21. Travel Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia talks to her grandmother. Horatio plays hard to get. Hamlet flies to Europe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading, and for your patience with our inconsistent posting times! As always, kudos and comments mean a lot!

It was probably for the best that Fortinbras dragged Ophelia out of her dorm. Probably. She still felt a little bit like the entirety of the supernatural void was watching her, but it didn’t matter as much when she was working. Fabric and patterns and all the glitz and glamor on the gilded age. Horatio had been right in saying it wasn’t her favorite time period to design for, but Fortnbras’ outfits were pretty epic. She only thought it was boring when she was most preoccupied with Hamlet.

She carried a flapper dress and character shoes to the deserted women’s dressing room. No one was around, so she could have just walked right in, but that would be rude, so she knocked.

“Hey!” She said, smiling. “The 1920’s called. They need you to try on some more clothes.”

“God please, no more Edwardian corsets. I will die if you put me in another one of those. Die, my man,” Fortinbras groaned through the door.

“No corsets, only heels,” Ophelia sang. “And a dress. May I come in?”

“Go for it,” Fortinbras said and she was sitting on the vanity completely shirtless.

“I...um...oh, I,” Ophelia stammered. There were words on her tongue somewhere, but she couldn’t find them to save her life. “I can give you a few more minutes if you need.” Fortinbras wasn’t actually in any sort of costume, just black athletic shorts and literally nothing else. So her offer made no sense. None at all. Ophelia’s internal monologue pitched into an even yell in the note E-flat.

“Nah man, I’m good.” Fortinbras stretched her arms over her head. Ophelia wasn’t entirely sure her jaw didn’t hit the floor. “It’s just really hot in here with all the lights. Is it okay? I can put a shirt on.” She blushed. Both of them did.

“No, no, it’s totally okay. What ever you’re comfortable with.” Ophelia’s voice was high and airy. “Flapper dress and character shoes,” she said, lacking any sort of coherence.

“Sick.” Fortinbras took the hanger from her hands. “Those things are going to break my neck.” She gestured towards the character shoes. Ophelia couldn’t look at her face. She was far too mortified. Which meant there was only really one other place to look. “I’m gonna need you to show me how to hang up the peacock dress. I tried, really, I did, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah totally.” Ophelia walked over to the costume rack and tried to get the dress properly ordered. It took her at least three times and she dropped it twice as Fortinbras looked on. “Haha, see. It’s difficult.” She tried to laugh away her embarrassment and arousal. If she was comfortable with just being shirtless, that meant her team had probably seen her shirtless too. That made sense. She did sports. Friends just saw each other’s bare tits. No big deal. Even though Fortinbras told her she was self conscious of the scar on her belly. Her wonderful toned yet soft...no. No, no, no. Bad thoughts. Ophelia tried to will them away to no avail.

“Are you okay? Is there another ghost? The catatonic staring is kinda freaking me out.” Fortinbras placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Nope! Everything’s totally fine,” Ophelia squeaked.

Fortinbras took one step back and looked her up and down. Ophelia might as well have been topless because she felt very exposed. “Is it the tits? I can put them away if you want.”

“No!” Ophelia said, way too quickly to be natural. “I’m just frazzled with all the work I’m behind on.” She giggled nervously. “Totally no big deal.”

“Right.” Fortinbras cocked her hip and a spike of warmth went straight into the pit of Ophelia’s belly. “In that case, I’m gonna need you to zip up the back of my dress.”

“Sure thing,” Ophelia smiled, some of her cool finally returning to her. This, of all things, was a normal activity. She could totally handle it. For sure. No questions asked.

“Oh, I look kinda nice,” Fortinbras said once she was properly dressed. “It’s still uncomfortable as hell thought.”

“Of course you look nice. I made that dress.” A burst of pride settled itself in Ophelia’s chest.

“It’s good.” she nodded. “Nothings going to beat a rugby shirt, though.”

“Nothing ever will,” Ophelia agreed. “You know. Do you really want to learn how to walk in heels today?”

“Not particularly,” Fortinbras grimaced. “They hurt and I’m barely even standing in them.” It was true. She was halfway leaned on the vanity again, this time looking like the picture of abject misery rather than a greek statue. Ophelia shook her head. Bad thought. Good people don't think about their friends like that. Right? Right.

“Then we should just catch an earlier train. I’m sure Abuelita would be thrilled,” Ophelia smiled, safe with the notion that Fortinbras was not telepathic. Nothing could possibly be more terrifying. Not even ghosts.

“Sounds good to me.” Fortinbras shed the dress and had a suspiciously easy time putting it back on the hanger. She grabbed her duffel bag and after a quick few texts to Voltimand confirming that Babadook was behaving herself, they were off to the train station. 

But trains were boring, so Ophelia tapped herself out of existence for a while, until they were comfortably seated and speeding towards her stop.

“But yeah,” Fortinbras continued. “Your grandma is definitely way cooler than mine.”

“What does yours do?” she asked.

“Oh, one makes quilts and the other one figureheads some fashion magazine in Norway while my mom works on it from over here.” She shrugged. “It’s nothing interesting.”

“A fashion magazine?” Ophelia asked. “Like, a big one? I kinda thought Elsinore had a stranglehold on the European market.”

“Listen, I do not get caught up in that shit, but I think we’re competitors. Except my mom’s is better because it focuses on underrepresented groups in fashion. I know its easy to be all like, ‘mine is the only one that isn’t bad’ but I really do think they do good work.”

“Anyone on the face of the earth does better work than Gertrude,” Ophelia huffed.

“I’ve been told. My mamma has a file the size of Crime and Punishment of awful things Gertrude has done. Why she hasn’t published it is far beyond me. I think you would probably like her, come to think of it. You should give my mamma a call. She would adore you.”

“Uh, I don’t really think I should work for my friend’s parents. It’s worked so well for me in the past,” Ophelia said sarcastically. She could read Fortinbras’ face as she remembered the day of the breakup. Such a minor blip now in the horrors of what has become her life.

“Don’t worry. I’m not traumatized by my mother’s emotional abuse. You’d be good.” Fortinbras shrugged.

Not much else happened until they got to Ophelia’s front door. “Do you think she’ll be mad at me?” she asked.

“For what?” Fortinbras had both of their bags held over her shoulder.

“For losing the crucifix.”

“I’m sure it’ll be okay, man.” Fortinbras gently bumped her side. “From what you’ve told me, she loves you a lot.”

Ophelia nodded and rang the bell.

“ Ophelia! My darling Lamb, ” the old woman said in Spanish as she swung open the door. “ I was beginning to wonder how long you were going to stand outside. Is this your friend you were telling me about. She is very pretty. And you got her to carry your bag. She must be very sweet .”

“ Grandma,”  Ophelia laughed into her hug. “ English please, so we don’t exclude my friend.”

“Friend. Of course,”  her abuelita smiled. “I said you are very pretty and it’s sweet of you to help with Ophelia’s bags. You are Fortinbras, yes? My Ophelia and Laertes have told me a lot about you.”

Fortinbras gave Ophelia a sideways glance. “And Laertes too?” she asked.

“Oh yes, of course,” she ushered the duo into the living room. “ He says only good things, don’t you worry. Ophie, will you be a dear and fetch us the tea. I left it on the stovetop.”

“Of course, Abuelita,” Ophlelia sang as she left the room and continued to eavesdrop.

“My Lamb tells me you do Environmental Studies at Columbia, yes? You must be very smart.” she asked.

“Oh, well,” Fortinbras stammered, Ophelia could practically hear her blush. “I’m as smart as anyone else, I guess.”

“Nonsense!” Ophelia could hear the smile in her voice. “You must be the smartest if my grandaughter chose you. She has very good judgement, you know. Except when it came to that Hamlet boy. And he wasn’t nearly as pretty as you.”

“Abuela,” Ophelia called as she set the tea down on the table. “You do not need to bother Fortinbras with that.”

“Oh come now, Lamb, she doesn’t mind.” She gestured to Fortinbras, who was already wrapped up in a colorful blanket. “Now, that is a name. Fortinbras. What does it mean?”

“It’s just my last name. My first name is Maxime, you can call me by that if you’d like…” Fortinbras trailed away uncomfortably.

“Never! I will call you what you want to be called. Do not be ridiculous.” Fortinbras visible untensed against her side. Then was the first time she was able to take a close look Ophelia.

She gasped and took Ophelia’s hands in her own. “What happened to you, love?” Ophelia felt her eyes settle firmly on her chest. Right. The top of the cross that was burned into her skin was a little above her neckline. For a moment she could have pretended that is was a normal scar, but she couldn’t lie. Not about this. Her abuelita coughed lightly and a bolt of terror ran through Ophelia’s spine. Fortinbras’ hand on her shoulder reminded her that it probably wasn’t real. Who knew any of these things?

Ophelia told her grandmother everything and as the day stretched into night, the horror stretched across her face.

“I’m sorry, Abuelita,” Ophelia wasn’t crying, not anymore. She felt more dry and defeated than anything. “I’m sorry I lost the crucifix.” Her grandmother made eye contact with Fortinbras.

“As long as you’re safe, Lamb, that’s all the matters. You’ll find the necklace.” She gathered both Fortinbras and Ophelia into a tight hug. “Sleep, you two. I’ll have some things for you tomorrow morning.”

* * *

Horatio set his glass down on the table and narrowed his eyes at Hamlet, who was in the midst of reclining in his seat while reading something off his phone. His bathrobe was slightly open and his perfectly curled hair shone under the penthouse’s aesthetic gray lighting. With one arm propped over the back of his chair and a lazy grip on his third glass of wine, he seemed the very image of art deco personified.

And of course he did. Horatio knew this act all too well. He just didn’t realize how frustrating it was to have it directed at him.

“Are you doing alright?” Hamlet asked without looking at Horatio. “You seem a bit quiet.”

“I’m great.” Horatio said without bothering to disguise the latent irritation in his voice. “Can I have more wine?”

“Be my guest.” Hamlet inclined his head.

Horatio snagged the bottle off the center of the table and poured himself a generous helping. Might as well. If Hamlet was going to ignore him all night just to fuck with his head, there really wasn’t any reason not to get shit-faced.

He felt bad for the thought as soon as it crossed his mind because of course he knew this wasn’t really malice. It was just the thing Hamlet did when he felt insecure and needed the validation of being wanted, tangling his romantic partners along and making them beg for more. It had been pretty ineffective on Ophelia, who would just leave if Hamlet started acting prissy, but Hamlet used to do it all the time when he was dating Laertes. Which was...unfortunate to watch as a naive nineteen year old. Horatio had learned a  lot  of new terminology while listening to Hamlet rant about the violent make-up sex which resulted from this give and pull methodology.

Horatio shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he downed his wine in one go. Unfortunately, he was of a far weaker will than Ophelia or even Laertes and would thus continue to hang on Hamlet’s every word even after it became abundantly clear that he was playing into his hand.

“It’s eleven.” Horatio couldn’t stop himself from saying. “You should probably be heading to bed soon.”

Hamlet shrugged lazily as he scrolled through some fashion blog. “My flight’s at twelve.”

“Which means that you should be at the airport by nine.” Horatio reminded him. “Actually, more like eight since it’s an international flight.”

“I have TSA pre-boarding.”

“I have no idea what that means.” Horatio said.

Hamlet took another sip of his drink. “It means I can show up five minutes before the plane leaves.”

“Great.” Horatio sighed. “Fabulous.” This was getting ridiculous. Hell, this had  been ridiculous and Horatio was about ten seconds away from excusing himself to go jerk off and be done with it. But then he would have to spend the next however many weeks regretting lost time with Hamlet while he waited for him to come home.

Horatio needed to do something to break this cycle. Whether it ended in sex or not was no longer of consequence.

Therefore, Horatio poured himself yet another glass and stood. “I’m going to go get some stuff together.” He said to Hamlet. “Call me if you need me.”

“Stuff?” Hamlet asked as Horatio picked his laptop up off the coffee table. “Are you going somewhere?” There was an added layer to his voice, which indicated that he was paying attention again. Good. If Hamlet wanted to play games, Horatio could match him parry to parry. The one advantage of watching Hamlet date other people was that he knew the steps of the duel and the chinks in the armor.

Horatio tossed a casual glance over the room, scanning for more stray items. “Well, I’m going back to my dorm tomorrow.”

“How come?” Hamlet asked with nervousness? Insolence? It was difficult to tell.

“I’m not going to hang around your house while you’re not home, Hamlet. That would be weird.” He allowed his tone to take on a sudden, sharper edge. “Besides, it’s not like you seem to want me around anyway, so.”

“Who said I don’t want you around?” Hamlet asked.

“Nobody.” Horatio replied.

Hamlet had put his phone away now. Out of the corner of his eye, Horatio could see him leaning forward in his chair, breaking his ‘disinterested-but-undeniably-sexy’ pose. “Are you alright?” Hamlet finally asked, turning the tables.

“I’m fine.” Horatio said airily.

Another pause. The process of inquiry seemed to be physically paining Hamlet as he abandoned his wine glass.

“Are you sure?” Hamlet tried again. “You seem off.”

“I’m sure.” For once in his life, Horatio was glad that he was so bad at lying. It made it the work of antagonizing Hamlet all the easier, allowing him to be as passive aggressive as he wanted without offering any doubt as to how irritated he was.

Horatio frowned to himself. So that answered that question. He really was a jealous bitch.

He tucked his laptop under one arm and walked to the bedroom. It took the space of about ten minutes, but eventually Hamlet snuck in behind him. Now sure of the other’s undivided focus, Horatio let him hover before sitting on the bed. Even without looking, he could clearly picture Hamlet’s face in his mind, slightly scrunched features and a posh tilt of his chin.

He shoved another handful of clothes into his bag, thought it over, and pulled out a pair of jeans for tomorrow. Behind him, Hamlet made a sound of distress.

“Yes?” Horatio asked innocently. “Did you need something?”

Hamlet stared at his bag with ferocious intensity. “If you pack like that, all your clothing will wrinkle.”

Horatio leveled him calmly. “So?”

“So…” Hamlet glowered as Horatio slowly lifted another shirt out the drawer, twisted it into a ball, and shoved it in the bag. “ So, ” he stressed, “you’re going to look ridiculous.”

“Oh? Is that all?” Horatio’s words tinged with sarcasm. “I thought you were going to say something bad.”

“That is bad.” Hamlet snapped. “I don’t want to be seen with you looking like the trashy version of a hipster.”

Horatio hummed. “Does it matter? You’ll be in Paris.”

The tension in the room ramped up to a noticeable weight. Horatio could feel Hamlet seething, patience apparently run thin and completely through.

Show time.

Horatio closed the drawer Hamlet had given him and sat back against it, taking a lazy sip of wine. He was certainly feeling the effects of his little alcohol fit now but it just made it all the more amusing to watch Hamlet splutter. Even with a blush of anger spread across his pale cheeks, Hamlet managed to look beautiful. Unfair, truly.

Horatio smiled as Hamlet glowered at him. “Did you need something, darling?” He made sure to put emphasis on the pet name.

“Okay, what’s your problem?” Hamlet burst out, apparently against his own will.

“My problem?” Horatio blinked sweetly. “I don’t think I have a problem.”

Hamlet scoffed as he crossed his arms. “Obviously you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be acting like this.”

“Acting like what?” Horatio lifted his glass to hide a smirk. “Are you okay? You seem kinda ‘hot and bothered.’”

If looks could kill, Horatio was sure he’d be dead ten times over. As it was, however, they couldn’t and so Horatio was able to summon a pleasant smile even under the pressure of Hamlet’s rage.

“Alright,” finally taking pity on Hamlet, Horatio stood and crossed to the bed. He leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead, only to have Hamlet duck out of the way. “Aw, c’mon, Hamlet.” Horatio bent down to put himself back in Hamlet’s line of sight and smiled amicably.

“Go away.” Hamlet growled, turning away from Horatio.

“Don’t be like that.” Horatio sat on the bed, legs sprawled somewhat suggestively. “Why are you mad?”

Hamlet cast a long, cold look over his figure. “I don’t take well to being manipulated.”

Horatio raised an eyebrow. “And you think I do?” He asked dryly.

“That doesn’t count.” Hamlet asserted.

“Takes two to tango.” Horatio tipped his head to one side. “So. Are we going to have sex or what?” He asked tactlessly.

“What.” Hamlet bit back.

Whatever disappointment Horatio felt was easily mastered by an alcohol-heightened sense of pride. Bathroom time it was then. He stood, stretched, and snagged his bag off the floor. “Cool. See you in the morning.”

Hamlet didn’t answer him, instead grabbing one edge of the comforter and yanking it over himself. Horatio flicked off the lights as he left the room.

Masturbation did the trick of staving off the rampant horniness but accomplished very little overall. Horatio still wanted to be near Hamlet. Consumptively. As he lay on the couch, attempting to will himself to sleep, he kept his opened eyes on the crack beneath Hamlet’s door. As each minute passed by with a significant lack of movement beneath, Horatio found himself glaring at nothing. Okay. Maybe the game hadn’t been worth it. Granted anything was better than letting himself be pushed around. But still, Hamlet was leaving.

Horatio rolled back on the couch and shoved his hands into the hollows of his eyes, rubbing hard. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “what’s wrong with me?”

Horatio would be the first to admit he was very intense about crushes and affection in general but this, these overwhelming bolts of desire and desperation, they were just unnatural. Yet he wanted nothing more than to be in Hamlet’s bed. To hold him and be close to him and be with him.

Another glance to the door. Another disappointment.

“Okay,” Horatio announced to no one, “I’m done.”

He shoved off the blanket and crossed over to the door. With a deep breath of preparation, Horatio swung it open...only to come face to face with Hamlet on the other side.

Both men blinked at each other dumbly.

“I, uh…” Horatio said, “I’m sorry, I thought I heard…”

“No, I was just…” Hamlet inserted awkwardly.

“And I-”

“-getting some water-”

“...Yeah.”

“Yup.”

“Yeah.” Horatio repeated. He rubbed the back of his neck while Hamlet pointedly avoided eye contact. He swallowed. “Can I come back to bed?”

“Sure.” Hamlet said, just a bit too quickly. It seemed to take him a second to realize he was still supposed to be upset. “I mean. If you must.”

Horatio followed him back into the room and climbed into bed. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Hamlet curled up on the exact opposite side.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting sex now?” Hamlet spoke into the darkness. His tone was something more bitter than poison.

“No...I, um. I took care of that.” Horatio said carefully. “Can I come closer?”

Hamlet didn’t respond.

“Please?” Horatio tried again.

A grunt. Good enough, Horatio decided. He scooted over in bed and laid beside Hamlet, feeling instantly more at ease for the closeness.

“I really am going to miss you.” Horatio said with every shred of earnestness he was capable of. “I’m going to miss you a lot.”

Hamlet wouldn’t say it back. That wasn’t something of which he was capable, declarations of genuine affection, so Horatio was left to internally fill in the blanks of what wasn’t said and hope that he was right. That Hamlet might miss him too.

To his surprise, Hamlet rolled over and pressed into Horatio, who hesitantly hugged him back. He felt a wash of warm relief flood through him as he buried his face into Hamlet’s hair.

* * *

He should have slept. Hamlet had what he wanted, which was a promise from Horatio that he’d be missed. So he should have been sleeping. He wanted to sleep, it was a reasonable time for bed, and he felt reasonably safe. Sleep should have been easy.

But it wasn’t. He was still anxious. Horatio went into the one realm that Hamlet didn’t understand, and that was gray area. He didn’t reject him like Ophelia used to, nor did he bend to him like Laertes. No, he managed to somehow leave him without leaving the apartment and make him feel like shit without actually fighting with him. It was uncharted, awful territory.

But Horatio came back. Not that he’d really left. Hamlet was just about ready to cave in and beg him to come to bed when he’d said it for him. Thank god. The water excuse was weak, but it wasn’t the worst. It let him maintain some minute shred of control over the situation. And now, at least, he had Horatio back and was folded against his chest where he belonged.

But sleep wasn’t an option.

It was too important that he saved up the hours of Horatio’s touch so that he might be able to recall them in clear enough detail to fall asleep to them during his trip. That meant dedicating all of the time while Horatio slept to memorizing exactly what Horatio’s hands felt like and what the most perfect position was for laying against him. It wasn’t a long trip, Hamlet tried to reason with himself. Why was he treating this like a permanent disappearance? He never had this problem with going home or traveling before. He’d left Ophelia for nearly a month and a half over the summer and he’d barely even blinked. Sure, he missed her. But as a friend. He missed her company and having her to bicker with over whether silk counted as casual-wear. He missed talking to her. He didn’t want to talk to Horatio. He didn’t really care what he said most of the time, so long as he was saying it to him. He listened not for the content but for Horatio’s enthusiasm and intent.

He didn’t want to be away from him. Not for an hour, certainly not for weeks. But he had to. Horatio wasn’t on medical leave, and he’d used up his absences already. He was an actual student, not some bored prima-donna who didn’t have to worry about the future. Horatio needed to keep up in school, and that meant no Paris until break. Even if they did travel, he wouldn’t want it to be Paris. They could go to Rome or some other fancy city that his mother wouldn’t be in. Hell, he’d even let Horatio drag him to the Vatican if he wanted to.

Hamlet was just falling asleep when Horatio’s alarm went off. He buried his face in Horatio’s chest, groaning as the generic Apple alarm tone kept going. Finally Horatio shut it off.

“Do you have class?” Hamlet asked miserably, still clinging to him.

“Yeah,” Horatio sighed. He made no further move to rouse himself.

“What time?” Hamlet tried not to sound upset. He was supposed to be indifferent.

“Eleven,” Horatio said, running his fingers idly over his shoulder.

“What time is it now?” Hamlet asked, control over his voice wavering as he relaxed under his touch.

“A little after nine,” Horatio said quietly. Hamlet closed his eyes.

“What time do you need to leave?” He mumbled into Horatio’s sweater.

“I need to shower and stuff, walk to class. I should be out the door no later than 10:30.”

Hamlet sighed, clinging to him tighter. At most he could probably glean another half-hour of uninterrupted time with Horatio. He was sorely regretting not having slept. It made him more emotional, which made it harder not to give in, cancel the flight and lay around waiting for Horatio to get back from class and lavish attention on him.

He forced himself out of bed, pulling Horatio up too. He looked a little confused, but he followed him into the bathroom all the same. “You should shower and get ready now so that we can spend the last half hour you’re here in bed,” Hamlet said seriously, washing his face and brushing his teeth. He watched Horatio strip in the reflection of the mirror, substantially regretting the fact that he’d been too upset the night before to let himself be screwed. Pride had its price, he supposed. He finished his morning routine and returned to bed, waiting impatiently for Horatio to finish showering. It took exactly twenty-two minutes before Horatio was back in bed. Not that Hamlet had timed it.

He must have fallen asleep, since he woke up to Horatio’s hand gently gripping his shoulder. “Hamlet, I have to go.”

“No,” Hamlet protested weakly, still half-asleep. Slowly he remembered that Horatio had class and he had a flight. “Call me an Uber,” Hamlet murmured into the pillow as Horatio slid out from under him.

“Shouldn’t I call Osric?” Horatio asked, kissing him on the forehead before making the Uber arrangement on his phone. 

“No,” Hamlet sat up. “He can’t come.”

“Why not?” Horatio’s brow furrowed slightly.

“I don’t want him to,” Hamlet stretched, standing up to follow Horatio to the door. “I won’t be there for long and he doesn’t believe in ghosts anyways,” he added as Horatio gave him a pointed look.

“Okay,” Horatio sighed. “But you’ll text me when you land? And remember to sleep and eat?” He said, not anxiously but not wholly calm either.

“I’ll call you when I land,” Hamlet said before his pride could tell him he sounded a touch desperate. He decided he didn’t care as Horatio kissed him.

“Try not to do anything too dangerous,” Horatio said as he pulled away.

“I’ll try,” Hamlet smiled. It wavered. “Try not to talk to any ghosts.”

“I won’t,” Horatio shivered. There was a heavy silence, but neither of them moved to fill it. Hamlet got once last kiss before Horatio ran to class.

Naturally, Hamlet ignored the sinking dread and separation anxiety that set in as he got in his Uber. He paid the guy and pouted the whole way to the airport, miserably finding the spot Guildenstern and Rosencrantz texted him to say they were.

“Rough night?” One of them asked. Hamlet show him a glare.

“It was fine,” Hamlet said stiffly. “I assume you got your tickets?” He’d paid to have them all ride first-class together, mostly as a way to seal the deal but also in the hopes of filling them in on the kind of searches they’d be doing. He also had noise-canceling headphones and an eye-mask if he ended up needing to not see or hear them.

They boarded the plane and found their seats without much trouble. The two were suitably impressed, though for Hamlet the joy of riding in a plane was about as much as riding in the back of Osric’s car. It was just a thing that happened, no more and no less.

“So what exactly do you need me to do?” The more withdrawn of the two asked after about two hours in the air. Hamlet handed him photocopies of the ballistics report and details regarding the weapons.

“These bullets and this gun don’t appear under any of the normal, everyday databases.” Hamlet said. “But, since they’re weapons, someone had to make them. They do have something like an ID number, but it doesn’t correspond to any of the legal arms manufacturers.”

“Legal?” Rosencrantz asked. “Is this from a crime report?”

“Yes,” Hamlet sighed. “And I need you to help me figure out who owned the gun and bullets, since the case was dropped by the NYPD.”

“Why?” Guildenstern asked. Hamlet clenched his jaw. These two didn’t know what happened. Or if they did, it was from the news coverage.

“Because my mother hates bad press,” Hamlet grumbled.

“Your mother?” Rosencrantz asked. “This...Wait a minute. That was...your dad?” Hamlet watched in idle discomfort as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern blanched in shock.

“Can you figure out who the gun belonged to or not?” Hamlet sighed.

“I can,” Rosencrantz said quickly. “I-I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Hamlet said stiffly. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He wanted this to be done so he could go back to New York.

“So the plan is that we’re going to stay at a hotel in Paris, solve this...mystery, and get some interviews done while you go visit an island in the mediterranean?” Guildenstern returned them to business.

“Yes,” Hamlet said, forcing comfort. “I will be staying at my mother’s house for the first night, and then I will be flying to Marseilles, staying there for a night, and catching a ship to approximately Palermo.”

“Approximately Palermo?” Rosencrantz asked suspiciously.

“An island off the coast of Palermo,” Hamlet corrected. “I’m awaiting a call with coordinates.” He added. They looked at him skeptically, twin faces nearly identical save for differences in dry skin and acne scars.

“Who on earth uses coordinates?” Guildenstern asked.

“Dr. Amadeus Yorick, Bridge Between Worlds and Friend of the Undead,” Hamlet said with theatrical emphasis. “He has five stars on Yelp.”

“ What? ” Both of them said at once.

“Yeah, he’s apparently a medium living in the middle of nowhere off the coast of Italy,” Hamlet said as he leaned back. “I looked him up, and I think his family has been at it for a while. There were papers about a Father Yorick going back as far as the eighteenth century.”

“Dude, I hate to break this to you, but this is almost certainly a scam,” Rosencrantz said earnestly.

“If it’s a scam, then so be it,” Hamlet snapped. “Southern Italy is gorgeous this time of year, so at the very least it won’t be a wasted trip.”

“And how are you planning to get to this island?” Guildenstern asked. “I can’t imagine it’s on a typical boating route, if you need coordinates to get to it.”

“I already have arrangements,” Hamlet huffed.

“Let me guess, a yacht?” Guildenstern asked with slight sarcasm.

“My family isn’t really the boating type,” Hamlet said easily. “No, I made an arrangement with a Monsieur Jerome, who has a cargo ship he tends to run through that part of the Mediterranean Sea,” Hamlet said as he fussed about a hangnail.

“Like, a cargo ship as in an actual cargo ship, or…” Rosencrantz searched carefully for words. “Pirates.”

“I believe he identifies as an alternative shipping service for discrete businesses,” Hamlet smirked. It wasn’t difficult to find him. All it took was half a night’s worth of digging around increasingly sketchy discount travel sites until he found a guy offering to boat you anywhere you liked on the south coast of Europe for a flat rate of one hundred euros per nautical mile.

“You’re going to get murdered,” Rosencrantz said with genuine worry.

“No, I won’t,” Hamlet said with tired confidence. “Jerome was quite pleasant on the phone, even if I had to use French to speak with him.” He sat up straighter as he noticed Guildenstern scrutinizing his face. “What?” He asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Guildenstern said with a sigh. “I’m just surprised that you’re, well. You.”

“And who am I?” Hamlet laughed condescendingly. “You’ve known me for less than a day.” He leaned back and crossed his legs.

“I think he meant that he was expecting Horatio to be hooked on someone like…” Rosencrantz must have caught his glare. “I don’t know. Grounded.”

“I’m plenty grounded,” Hamlet protested. “How long has Horatio liked me?” He asked, interested but reserved.

“It’s not like he talked to us about that stuff,” Guildenstern said. “He’d just occasionally get moody and monologue at us about his play and how there was one actor that  had to play the lead. It only got unbearable after he did some work on the Great Gatsby last year.”

“Unbearable how?” Hamlet struggled to act aloof. He was starving for any kind of gossip about Horatio’s hidden feelings and intents.

“Have you ever tried living with a writer who was obsessed with Lost Generation, Art Deco melodrama whose only coping mechanism besides worrying about his play is fencing?” Guildenstern sighed. It didn’t sound so bad to Hamlet.

“That seems better than living with post-modernist music majors,” Hamlet countered.

“You never had to face his incel rants,” Rosencrantz smiled slightly.

“He’s not an incel. He has friends,” Hamlet frowned. “He also does sports and gets laid.”

“He gets laid  _ now _ ,” Guildenstern corrected. Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “We had to hear too much about your sex life through Horatio’s complex, metaphorical, existential nice-guys-finish-last rants after Gatsby started.”

“That’s not my fault,” Hamlet scoffed, trying not to seem pleased. That meant Horatio had wanted to fuck him for longer than he thought.

“No,” Rosencrantz admitted. “But it did get worse once you started sleeping with the costume designer. Horatio was miserable when you seemed not to pick up on his attempts at flirting with you.”

“Attempts? What attempts?” Hamlet leaned forward, surprised.

“I don’t know. Fitzgerald-type stuff,” Guilenstern said dismissively. “Eye-contact across the stage. Dark conversations about the horror of living and the perils of love.”

Hamlet frowned. He remembered those conversations as failed attempts to get Horatio to willingly break his touch rules before he really committed to Ophelia. He’d been hurt enough when they didn’t work that he’d even started to doubt Horatio’s sexual attraction to him, let alone romantic. If there was even real romantic attraction now. Hamlet scowled as he felt anxiety roil inside his stomach. “Well. Either way he has me now.” He meant for the words to be detached, but instead they came off as slightly sappy and wistful.

The conversation slowly petered off and he found himself comfortably alone as the two put in headphones, drifting into the half-sleep that came with international flights. Hamlet wasn’t huge on music, but he had a few albums of violin concertos performed by Jascha Simonis, one of Juilliard’s best-known alums. Hamlet vaguely remembered downloading them after getting a small crush on the violinist during a concert he watched a year or so ago. He was glad he had the music now, and it was plenty long enough to pass the time. He had five hours until he landed. Five hours until he had to survive Mother and Claudius.


	22. Remedies for Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia buys aloe. Horatio goes home. Hamlet also goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you, as always, for reading! Your support means a lot to us.

Ophelia would have never thought that Fortinbras was a good cook, but she was. As her abuelita made more tea over the stove, the two of them were occupied with finishing up the burnt strawberry tamales. Whether or not they were supposed to be for breakfast or desert was completely up for debate, but what did it matter? They were sweet and yummy and Ophelia would do basically anything to avoid her problems. Even cooking.

“Seriously, how did you get so good at this?” Ophelia asked, peering over Fortinbras’ shoulder.

“There’s instructions, like, right there. I don’t need to be good at it,” she shrugged, gesturing a graceful hand towards the cookbook.

“You don’t even speak Spanish. It’s not fair,” Ophelia huffed.

“There are pictures. And it’s not like numbers change. I just need to get you to do some translating for me.” Fortinbras smiled. “And now I’ve got this. So like, go help your grandma set the table or something.”

Ophelia grinned like in idiot as she reached above her abuela to get the dishes. They were cool and heavy in her hands. As she stood around the table, he grandmother appeared behind her with a platter of teacups.

“ _ And she cooks! Aren’t you a lucky girl, my Lamb _ ,” she laughed.

“ _Grandma_, ” Ophelia groaned. “ _It’s not like she thinks about me like that. Even if you really want her to._”

She looked to Ophelia and then to Fortinbras and back to Ophelia. “ I think you are completely delusional. ”

“ _ Grandma! You can’t just say that about people! _ ”

“ _ Yes I can! I’m old, Lamb. I can say anything I want. _ ” Her abuelita smirked and gave her a handful of silverware.

“So what’s the order for the day?” Fortinbras asked as she placed breakfast on the table.

“First breakfast, then ghost charms, hang out, I don’t know ,” Ophelia explained as she filled everyone’s cup with tea. “Maybe we’ll stop for bubble tea.”

“You and about a hundred aloe plants,” her abuela said calmly as she served herself breakfast.

“Excuse me?” Ophelia asked.

“If you tie a red thread around each of the leaves, evil spirits will be dispelled.” Because that was a totally normal thing to think and say.

“How much aloe are we talking?” Fortinbras asked. “I have some gel in my bag. We could just smother her with it and tie her up with thread.”

“What sort of freaking question is that?” Ophelia asked, voice rising about an octave. For the briefest second, the sight of herself bound in something red flashed through her mind. She blushed.

“It must be the plant,” her abuelita said solemnly. “I am sorry. I do not make the rules.”

“They’re ghosts!” Ophelia huffed. “No one makes the rules. It’s just a free for all that ends in tragedy and death.”

“It seems like there are some rules,” Fortinbras shrugged. “Your mom did seem somehow bound to the locket. By that logic, Hamlet’s dad could be bound to something too. Probably just Hamlet. He seems perpetually haunted.”

“See, this one understands,” her abuela laughed. Ophelia sulked against her chair. Also by that logic, she had lost her mother in the chaos of her teeny tiny dorm room. Perfect. “I have a cure for that too, Lamb,” she continued.

“But I didn’t-”

“Place a statue of San Antonio upside down and ask for help finding the crucifix. He will guide you, but remember,” she added cryptically. “You must remember to place him rightside up once you find it or else horrible things will happen.”

Ophelia saw Fortinbras give her a sideways glance, but she chose to ignore it. She probably still agreed with Laertes, but Horatio could never do that. Never. Plus, her room was pretty chaotic anyway, so she had no one but herself to blame. “What sort of horrible things?” she asked.

“The most horrible,” her abuela adopted her most intimidating I’ve-Seen-Things-You- Can’t-Comprehend face. 

“Details?” Ophelia pressed, laughing.

“I don’t actually know, Lamb. I’ve never heard of anyone forgetting. He will probably drown you. That seems to be a common enough theme.”

“I’d prefer for you not to be drowned,” Fortinbras added, helpfully.

“I appreciate it, truly,” Ophelia said as she took another bite of strawberry. It was, completely perfect. “So, we’ll go to Home Depot soon?”

“Oh sick. I’ll be among my people,” Fortinbras smirked. “We’ll find you enough aloe plants that nothing will ever be able to haunt you ever again.”

The Home Depot gardening section did, indeed, have many aloe plants. So many, in fact, that Fortinbras really was going to be able to fill her promise.

“Do you think effectiveness is positively correlated with number of leaves?” Fortinbras asked as she scooped another plant into her arms.

“How on earth would I know that?” Ophelia grabbed another plant as well.

“I don’t know. Man, I wonder if it’s better to gt fewer plants with more leaves or more plants with fewer leaves. It’s like, the worst, most high stakes math problem ever.”

Ophelia didn’t mean to giggle, but she did. “I think a botched moon landing would have resulted in more death.”

“Touche, my dude, touche.” She ran her thump along the side of a leaf. “They’re prickly too. It would make for good fantasy armor.”

“I can see it now,” Ophelia mused dramatically. “You, emerging from the forest, decked in the blood and gore of your enemies. The light breaks and catches on the metal of your sword. The scattered light has nowhere to go except your armor, but alas, it can not reflect the dazzling rays, for you are covered in gooey leaves and are a total dork.”

Fortinbras laughed bright and clear as they scanned the plants through self checkout. There was no way in heaven or earth they were going to subject an actual human cashier to this atrocity. As it turns out, Ophelia could hold five aloe plants and Fortinbras could hold six, because she was just the best. 

“Do you think we need to buy thread?” she asked.

“Probably not? We definitely have some laying around somewhere,” Ophelia shrugged. “We can always go out and get more later.”

“So bubble tea?”

“Bubble tea,” Ophelia agreed.

It used to be her and Laertes’ thing back when they were kids. They would sneak out of stuffy, Catholic choir lessons to the tea place down the road. There, they could talk about who was screwing who and how the nuns were totally going to find out about it. They could just chill and be twins, no longer bound to the restrictions of single-sex catholic education.

But those days were long gone, and Ophelia was excited to share the treat with Fortinbras, who apparently had never had it before.

“It’s chewy,” she squeaked. “Drinks aren’t supposed to be chewy.”

“It’s the experience of it all,” Ophelia explained. She took a long sip. While she insisted Fortinbras get the classic milk tea, she went with something so fruity and sweet, it might as well have been liquified cotton candy.

“Can I try a sip of yours?” Fortinbras asked, rather shyly. It caught Ophelia totally by surprise.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Before she could even properly shift her cup, Fortinbras leaned over. Their cheeks brushed for the barest hint of a second. Maybe Ophelia had actually been struck by lightning, or maybe she was just a little nervous.

“Sorry man,” Fortinbras smiled. “I didn’t mean to, like, head-butt you.”

“Oh, you’re fine.”

Technically speaking, Ophelia could just kiss her now. Kiss her now and let her and everyone else knows that she has an unbearable, heart-wrenching crush. But no. That wasn’t allowed. Then Fortinbras might not want to be friends with her anymore and that would be unacceptable. The only acceptable move would be from friend to girlfriend, but that was too much of a risk. It hadn’t mattered with Hamlet or anyone else, because how on earth could they possibly say no to her?

No, this mattered, so there was nothing Ophelia could do about it. She was aware, somewhere in the back of her mind, that they picked up their bags of plants that they were returning to the house. And Fortinbras was talking to her too, and apparently she was answering. Ophelia capitalized on social brain autopilot for all it’s worth so she could think about the situation at hand.

Pining. Ophelia didn’t pine. She just asked the question and either got what she wanted or didn’t. No muss, no fuss, no ruined friendships or broken hearts. She didn’t realize how much pining ached. It pulsed just underneath her ribs like a jellyfish. Each stinging tentacle sent jolts to somewhere behind her stomach. It didn’t even stop once they were listening to podcasts and tying the red threads around the leaves. It was a feeling she just couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried to think about Hamlet or being caught out in the rain or anything.

How could she be sure she wasn’t blushing the entire time? That would be just the thing. And then Fortinbras would know and the world would fall apart. At least Ophelia had her own bed she could return to in this house. Or well, she assumed she did, but Fortinbras was staring at her expectantly as the two of them sat in a nest of pillows.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Ophelia asked, this time blushing from shame and not want.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Fortinbras asked. “It had been kinda nice in your dorm…” She trailed away and clashed a goofy smile. “You’re very nice and soft.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Ophelia said, smiling as Fortinbras leaned a little against her shoulder.

Because she was a masochist. A complete and utter masochist and not all the aloe plants in the entire world could save her from that.

* * *

No lead meant no rehearsal. Or, at least, it meant a very limited, entirely pointless rehearsal consisting mostly of set building and fielding complaints from the ensemble, AKA everything Horatio hated about the theater rolled into single day. He’d released everyone early because he couldn’t think of any reason not to, which left him with ample time in which to accomplish a multitude of wonderful activities such as:

Attempt to read, get distracted worrying about Hamlet.

Do homework, get distracted missing Hamlet.

Think about texting Ophelia, don’t do that because you’re still holding the ghost of her mother captive.

Feel guilty about that fact for a while.

Break down and admit that you’re not getting anything done and are slowly sinking into a pit of despair and solemn moodiness.

Catch the ferry.

By the time Horatio arrived on the South Shore, it was already edging close to eleven. Yet, despite the advanced hour, the main street was still filled with a healthy population of restaurant goers and walkers. Horatio kept to the more shadowed side of the street out of the fear that he may run across some of his cousins or aunts but thankfully evaded capture.

Once freed from any wandering eye, he ducked into the alley behind  Caterina’s and stopped to dig his key out of his messenger bag. Rapid movement out of the corner of his eye made him freeze but a quick glance revealed that it was only a street cat.

“Hey, Poca.” Horatio whispered. He bent down, carefully setting his bag aside, and held out his hand. “Hey, c’mere.”

The normally friendly black cat eyed him distrustfully.

“C’mere.” Horatio urged again. He made a few kissy noises. The cat hissed, arching her back high, and ran away.

Horatio frowned. “_Diavola_.”

He unlocked the backdoor and slipped inside. He was instantly greeted by a wave of suffocating heat and the burning smell of sauteed onion. Horatio breathed it in deeply and sighed. Home.

Carefully avoiding the empty crates which lined the back of the building, he picked his way towards the kitchen. It was remarkably easy to be stealthy when everyone was rushing about, absorbed in other tasks and orders. Horatio zoned in a curly haired woman working to beat dough into shape and moved to stand behind her. He checked his watch and waited.

A full five minutes later, his cousin finally registered his presence. “Oh! Horatio!” She exclaimed, holding one flour covered hand to her chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,  Angelica .” Horatio grinned. “You’re positively glowing today.”

“I am...very pregnant.” Angelica sighed, holding one hand to her stomach. “Are you looking for your Ma?”

“Did I hear my baby?!” A booming voice echoed across the kitchen, followed ushering in an extremely short woman in a stained apron. Caterina herself. She beamed as she saw Horatio and crossed the kitchen in a few long strides to pull him into a hug. “Horatio!” She said happily. “You’re home!”

“Yeah, I’m,” Horatio tried and failed to free himself from his position pressed directly into his mother’s ample bosom, “I’m here.”

“Wait.” Horatio gasped for breath as his mom released him. She grasped his arms and gave him a fretful once over. “It’s play season. Why are you home? Are you sick? Have you lost your scholarship? Do you have an STD? Oh, I’m going to fucking murder that Hamlet boy, mark my words-”

“Ma. Relax. Everything’s fine.” Horatio said carefully.

His mom offered him a deeply unimpressed glare. “Horatio, I’ve told you a million times before, leave the lying to the professionals. Now, what’s wrong? It must be bad if you came all the way here instead of just calling.”

Horatio released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Hamlet’s left the country.”

Angelica and his mom exchanged a surprised glance.

“My friend had a boyfriend like that.” Angelica said sympathetically. “Got in too deep with the mob, next thing you know he’s flying off to Italy to make cash deals with the Vatican.”

“No. What? No, it’s- Hamlet isn’t in the mob.” Horatio tried very hard to remember why he thought coming to see his family was a good idea. “He’s going on an overseas trip for a few weeks. To France then the Mediterranean. Plus there’s all this stuff with Ophelia and...” He sighed, fiddling absently with the crucifix chain. “It’s been a long, long week.”

His mom tutted. “Okay, Angelica grab the cigars from under the sink. We’re having an emergency girl’s night.”

They congregated on the fire escape directly above the kitchen's backdoor, sitting on the discarded crates left up there for the specific purpose of gathering. Angelica passed on the cigars for obvious reasons but Horatio’s mom was halfway through her second before Horatio could even light his own. He quickly filled them in on the cursory details of the week, delicately avoiding any mention of his  direct interaction with the ghosts while discussing their existence. As far as his family needed to know, the ghost had just spontaneously appeared, completely free of his summoning.

“That’s a lot of sex for one week.” Angelica said at the conclusion of his rant.

“It’s not too bad.” His mom waved her off. “I did way worse in my prime.”

Angelica hummed absently, apparently unwilling to acknowledge the mental image of her aunt having sex. “Is his dick nice, at least?”

“I mean, yeah.” Horatio said awkwardly. “It’s aesthetically pleasing. Proportional.”

“But is it big?” Angelica asked in clear concern. “That’s important. My husband’s is so small, I’m shocked he ever managed to get it deep enough to get me pregnant.”

His mom shrugged and leaned back in her seat. “Probably should have checked that out before marrying him.”

“No sex before marriage, remember?” Angelica groaned. “I swear, Catholicism was invented to allow ugly men to get laid.” She did a quick sign of the cross to indicate to God that she was only joking. Well, mostly joking, Horatio knew.

“Really? This is what we’re focusing on? Not the literal ghosts?” Horatio asked incredulously.

“Ghosts, smosts. I want to hear more about your boyfriend.” Angelica said eagerly, leaning forward on her elbows.

Horatio felt a bolt of something like shame drop into his stomach. “He’s, um...he’s not my boyfriend.” He said, remembering Hamlet’s authoritative words on the matter.

Both women visibly winced.

“Baby, a man refusing to let you call him your boyfriend is a very bad sign.” His mom said seriously.

Horatio shook his head as he avoided Angelica’s sympathetic eyes. “No, Ma, it’s not like that. He’s just...Hamlet is delicate about these kinds of things. He’s been through some shit with relationships in general. Besides, I’m the one who can’t manage to say I love him.”

“Has he said he loves you?”

“I…” Horatio struggled to recall over the week’s waves of chaos, short, high tension talks and drawn out crisis. His silence apparently served as an answer enough to his mom, who sighed.

“Horatio, my little baby bastard, you can’t keep letting yourself get drawn in like this.” His mom said soothingly as she smoothed a hand through his hair.

“I’m not letting myself be drawn in.” Horatio defended, unable to keep a slightly nervous edge out of his voice. “Am I?”

“Says he wants you to love him but refuses to say it first. Won’t let you call him your boyfriend. Has somehow managed to convince you that you’re not worthy of his attention or that you’re not good enough for him.” His mom listed on one hand.

‘He hasn’t done all that. That’s...” Horatio defended weakly. As if in response to his stress, the silver weight around his neck seemed to grow heavier. “It’s complicated. He’s nice to me. Really. He’s so sweet in so many other ways. He has a hard time with words.”

“He’s an ugly rich boy piece of shit and you can do so much better.” His mom said as Angelica nodded in passionate agreement. “You should date Ophelia.”

The return to their normal banter assured Horatio more stable footing. He took a deep drawl from the cigar in his hand, coughed, and aimed a meaningless glare at his mom. “Still not straight, Ma.”

“You could date her brother?” Angelica suggested helpfully.

“Brother?” His mom’s face suddenly lit up in crazed excitement. “She has a brother?! Is he gay? Is he as pretty as Ophelia is?”

Horatio shook his head forcefully. “I’m not going to date Laertes either.”

“He’s incredibly pretty.” Angelica said, pulling out her phone and displaying it to Horatio’s overly zealous mother.

“How do you have a photo?” Horatio asked in despair. He’d worked so hard to keep his family life away from his school life and now a grievous betrayal in this, his weakest hour?

Angelica smiled innocently. “Relax, it’s just a shot from one of your fencing tournaments. I keep it in the cousins’ ‘Horatio’s Possible Boyfriends’ folder.”

“Possible boyfriends? Cousins?” Horatio asked, feeling dizzy with the strength of his scarlet blush. “How many of them have seen this?” He squeaked.

“Not that many.” Angelica said assuredly. “Only about thirty-one.”

Horatio considered what angle he’d need to jump at to snap his neck on the pavement below. “Can we please focus.” He begged. “I’m not going to break up with Hamlet and I’m not going to date Laertes so can we just move onto the next subject.”

His mom crossed her arms and huffed but, by the grace of some higher power, Angelica responded to his plea. “What did you want to talk about?” She asked gently, scooting forward on her crate so her swollen knees pressed against Horatio’s. He sighed contently at the contact and the warmth it provided. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was.

“I want to know what being in love feels like.” He said softly. “That way I can know when it happens to me. If it happens to me.”

Angelica gifted him with a sweet, sad smile. “Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. I hate my bitchass husband with the passion of a million suns and pray for his demise every single day of my life.”

Horatio nodded evenly and turned to his mom.

She returned his gaze calmly. “I’ve never been in love with a man. Even when I was actively pursuing relationships, I was always in it more for the sex.”

Horatio sighed. Really, he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Neither his cousin nor mom had ever been discreet in the fact that they hated every single man except him. But then, who else was he supposed to talk to? Ophelia was off the table considering Hamlet was her ex and that Horatio still had to decide what he was going to do about the crucifix. Unless he wanted to track down Laertes or freak out Fortinbras, he was out of luck. Even R&G were out of the question due to their sudden disappearing act. ‘In Paris for schoolwork,’ their note had read. Perfect. Everyone was off in Europe then. Everyone except him, sitting in Rosebank, Staten Island attempting to explain to his mom that Hamlet really did care about him while smoking a stale cigar.

“I think,” Angelica interrupted his musings, “that it’s just one of those things, right? Where it’ll happen slowly then one day you’ll just realize. Falling in love takes time.”

Horatio nodded mournfully. He leaned back against the steel bars of the fire escape. “How is it possible that I feel more helpless now than I did when Hamlet was dating Ophelia?” He asked the air.

“Because it’s real now. And you have choices to make.” His mom said firmly. Her voice offered no illusion as to an escape from responsibility.

New reality.

Horatio closed his eyes. “And what do I do about Ophelia?”

“First off, stop playing with the occult.” His mom pushed her crate closer. “You’re going to get your dumbass soul thrown straight into hell. Do you want to go to hell?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you.” His mom said in the same way most people would say  _ I love you _ . She blew smoke into the air, making the red of the neons across the street smudge. Her tone loosened into something comforting and calm. “Talk to Ophelia. Ask her about what she wants to do.”

“But what if the ghost hurts her?” Horatio asked. He held still through a small spluttering of forgein panic, riding out the feeling until it dissipated.

“If I died and, Lord forbid, came back as a ghost, how would you feel? Would you want Ophelia to keep you away from me?”

“No…” But that was, of course, part of the problem. This was Ophelia’s mom. She’d do anything for her and, if Hamlet was any indication, that devotion could run sour fast. Or run red. Horatio shivered and bundled his jacket tighter around himself. He missed Hamlet. He missed Hamlet enough that it hurt to breathe and the worry accompanying his absence gripped Horatio’s lungs like a deflated balloon. 

“Are you wearing the crucifix now?” Angelica asked. She reached out and tugged the cross out from under Horatio’s shirt.

Before he knew he was moving, Horatio had an iron grip on Angelica’s hand. “Don’t touch it.” He snarled viciously.

There was a beat in which Angelica stared at him with wide brown eyes. Horatio swallowed and let go of her hand, pulling his own close to his heart. “Angelica, I...I’m so sorry. I don’t know what-”

His mom stood and pointed in towards the apartment. “Horatio, go to your room.”

Horatio blinked at her. “I have a nine am tomorrow.”

“You can catch the ferry at five.” His mom glowered at him, parental disapproval heavy and strange in her blazing green eyes. She never looked at Horatio like that. Horatio had never done anything to deserve it.

Horatio passed another pale apology to Angelica and clambered inside. He slinked down the narrow hall and closed the door to his cramped and cluttered room. With a vivid rush of anger, Horatio gripped the crucifix as if to rip it off.

Then he stopped. Let his hand fall limp. And revealed in fear at the realization that, for reasons beyond rationality, he never wanted to be parted with her.

* * *

“Mother,” Hamlet hissed. “I would like to go to bed.”

“No you don’t,” his mother said airily, refilling Claudius’ coffee cup. It was nearly six in the morning French time, and Hamlet had only been back in the house for the past two hours or so. Getting off the plane and out of the airport was difficult, and getting the twins settled was longer than he thought.

Then he was home. And facing down the flawless mirror-image of his father; his uncle; at the beautiful dining room table of the pristine Paris house. His mother, more relaxed in her own home, stared at him with mild warmth and concern.

“How has school been going?” She asked him with forced gentleness.

“I’m taking some time off,” Hamlet said through his teeth, wishing death upon Claudius’ head. He looked worn out and, if he looked closely enough, guilty.

“That’s what Osric said,” his mother said thoughtfully. “Why is he not with you?”

“This was a last minute trip and I didn’t tell him,” Hamlet said quickly. “Mother, I have a call I need to make.”

“Who are you calling at this hour?” She asked, interest piqued in her dark eyes. “I can’t imagine it’s anyone important enough to stay up so late.”

“He’s important,” Hamlet said without thinking. She stared at him, silently pressing for more. “I promised I’d tell him when I got home.”

“And a text wouldn’t be sufficient?” She asked easily. “We haven’t spoken much in the past few months, and I’d like to be able to talk.” The shreds of honesty in her voice made it harder to lash out.

“I need to call him,” Hamlet urged, making sure to keep a heavy mask of disinterest in his voice. If he let on that Horatio was more than just a worried friend, Ophelia’s job application might be in limbo.

“What of your girlfriend? Have you called her?” His mother asked more or less politely.

“Yes,” Hamlet lied. “I called her the moment I landed.”

“Wonderful,” she smiled, revealing her utterly stunning smile. “I’m glad that you and she seem to have such a... normal  relationship.”

“What does that mean?” Hamlet bristled, taking the bait. He wanted to slam his face into the table and knock himself out, but that might break his nose.

“Well, she’s a woman for one,” his mother sighed. “I do understand that it’s unbearably fashionable again to take same-sex lovers, but it does tend to ruin one’s marketability overseas, even as close as Russia.” She seemed not to notice the look of abject disdain he gave her, nor the look to discomfort on Claudius’ face.

“I’m going to go call my friend,” Hamlet said stiffly, standing up. He had to walk by his mother to get to his room, so he just looked away.

“Wait,” his mother said quickly, catching his hand lightly. He wrenched it away. “What happened to your face?” Real concern played across her features.

“Nothing,” Hamlet said easily.

“You’re wearing foundation and you did an ill job of blending it over your right cheekbone. I can see the bruise,” his mother said sharply. “Did someone hit you?”

“No,” Hamlet said honestly. “There was an tech accident during rehearsal last weekend,” he lied easily. Much better than the truth. His mother scowled.

“Be sure that you’re treating it adequately,” she said seriously. “If the magazines catch you they’ll believe your the victim of abuse or some other wretched thing.”

“Yup,” Hamlet sighed. “I’m leaving now.” He added sharply, not quite running out of the room. He ran up the stairs and into his loft, locking the door behind him. He unzipped the suitcase that had all of the necessary things like clothes and lotion, digging out a V-neck t-shirt he stole from Horatio’s drawer while they were apart the night before, throwing it onto his bed. He ripped off all of his disgusting travel clothes and curled up in his bed, taking out his phone. 

He pulled the fluffy quilt over his head and buried his face in the stolen shirt as he waited for Horatio to pick up, relaxing slightly. As he’d hoped, the shirt still smelled like him. It was still early enough back in New York for him to be awake. As the phone passed the second ring he got worried that Horatio might not answer. He was nearly panicking by the fifth.

“Hey,” Horatio said as he picked up. Hamlet took a deep breath of relief.

“I’m sorry I’m calling you so late,” Hamlet said quickly, closing his eyes and cradling the phone against his cheek with both hands. “The airport was nightmarish and Mother made me sit and talk with her for hours.”

“It’s okay,” Horatio said, and he sounded slightly off. Upset, maybe? Sad.

“What’s wrong?” Hamlet asked nervously, wishing he could see Horatio’s body language. He let go of the phone with one hand so that he could hold onto the shirt. “You sound off.”

“I’m alright,” Horatio said. “Long day.” Hamlet nodded, though no one could see him. There was a long pause on the line.

“I wish you were here,” Hamlet finally said, exhaustion getting the best of him as he kept breathing the familiar scent of the shirt. Another pause, though he heard Horatio shift on the other line. He wanted to be held. Or screwed. Both. Mostly he just wanted to touch Horatio’s skin and know that he was there.

“I wish I was there too,” Horatio sighed. “Are you doing okay?” Hamlet curled in a tighter ball, grabbing a pillow hugging it against his chest.

“I’m tired,” Hamlet said. “And I hate my mother.”

“I know. Can you get some sleep?” Horatio asked gently.

“No,” Hamlet said miserably. “I’m stressed and you aren’t here.” There was another pause from Horatio. Hamlet squirmed slightly in discomfort.

“Would it help if I stayed on the line?” Horatio finally asked.

“It’s not the same,” Hamlet said sadly.

“I know,” Horatio sighed.

“It might help,” Hamlet whispered. “I don’t want you to hang up, though.”

“I have class at nine,” Horatio said calmly. “Other than that I don’t need to hang up.”

Hamlet nodded to himself again. “I have to catch a flight at eleven, French time, so that should be fine.”

“That’s, what, five in the morning here?” Horatio asked.

“Mhm,” Hamlet hummed. He was finally starting to relax, and with the relaxation came two days worth of exhaustion. He tightened his hold on the pillow, pressing his chin into it. “You’ll stay on the phone until I wake up?” He asked again.

“Yup,” Horatio said easily. Hamlet turned the volume all the way up on his phone so that he could hear all the little sounds of the sheets moving when Horatio shifted positions. He made sure his phone was plugged in and charging before he let himself release the last shreds of travel stress and bitterness about his mother, opting instead to just hug the pillow and imagine he was back in the city with Horatio.

“I miss you,” Hamlet said sleepily, draping the stolen shirt over the pillow he was laying on. The familiarity of its smell helped him to breathe more deeply.

“I miss you too,” Horatio said quietly.

It felt like he only closed his eyes for a minute before the alarm went off, alerting him to the fact that he had to be on a plane to the south of France in an hour and a half. He checked his phone. Sure enough, the call with Horatio was still going. It read that the call was nearly four hours long and counting. He pressed the speaker phone button and carried it with him into the bathroom, keeping it on as he showered and did his abbreviated travel skincare routine. He smiled as he heard Horatio roll over and groan on the other line.

“Good morning,” Hamlet said.

“It’s four in the morning,” Horatio sighed, voice heavy from sleep. “There’s no such thing as ‘good’ this early.”

“Describe your bedhead to me,” Hamlet said as he grabbed what little of his stuff he’d unpacked, shoving it back in his suitcase.

“Describe my what?” Horatio asked blearily.

“Your bedhead,” Hamlet said again, pausing before packing the shirt he slept on the night before. It still smelled like him. “What did you sleep in? Do you have a morning hard-on? Are you blushing now that I’ve asked?”

“Uh, it’s really dark in here. I don’t think I’m blushing,” there was a pause and Hamlet heard the blankets get thrown off. “And yeah, I’m kind of hard,” Horatio whispered. Hamlet smirked to himself.

“I’d offer to have phone sex with you but unfortunately I’m about to be in public,” Hamlet said lightly. “I’m sure your imagination can do the trick, though.”

Horatio sighed. “I’ll be fine,” he said sleepily.

“What’s your go-to, by the way?” Hamlet asked as he dragged the small suitcase he was bringing on the train out of his mother’s house. Thankfully everyone was gone.

“For what?” Horatio asked.

“You _know_ ,” Hamlet said quietly as he stepped out into the Parisian streets. He heard Horatio get up and turn on a light.

“Screwing you in the men’s dressing room,” Horatio conceded. “Also, my hair is smushed down on one side while the other side is standing completely on end.”

Hamlet smiled, picturing as clearly as possible the nightmarish state of Horatio’s curls. “We can make that dream a reality,” he said as he hailed a cab. “L’aeroport, s’il vous plaît,” he said quickly to the driver.

“We might get caught,” Horatio said without worry. More like a challenge.

“Well, that’s the point isn’t it?” Hamlet grinned, settling himself in the car. “What’s the point of doing anything if it doesn’t cause a scene? We’ll do it when I’m back.”

“We’ll need to run a couple practices first,” Horatio said, and a door closed. Hamlet assumed he was in the bathroom now.

“Horatio, are you really suggesting that we rehearse sex?” Hamlet laughed quietly.

“I’m suggesting that if we’re going to do something stupid and reckless we at least do it right,” Horatio said as he started the shower. “I need to shower so I can catch the ferry on time. Call me later?”

Hamlet frowned slightly. Ferries meant that Horatio was at home with his mom, which meant he was upset. And if it was about him, which it almost certainly was, his mother would not be a strong advocate for the continuation of their relationship. “I’ll call you later,” Hamlet sighed.

“Okay,” Horatio said. There was a pause, and Hamlet found himself hanging on every second of it. “And, Hamlet?” Horatio finally asked.

“Yes?” Hamlet asked eagerly.

“Be safe.” Horatio said. Not quite the words Hamlet had been hoping for, but they’d do.

“I will,” he said. “Bye.” Hamlet hung up as the cab pulled over to the side of the road by the train station. He mumbled a ‘thank you’ and paid, running now to catch the plane.

He was cutting it really very close, even by his standards. Even still, he made it. Once settled in his first class seat he opened up his carry-on bag, digging out the t-shirt. He held it in his lap as the plane took off, tracing his fingers over it. He hoped he’d be safe, he thought to himself. For once, he wanted to make it back to the city in one piece.


	23. Botched Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia is "stage" kissed. Horatio loses touch. Hamlet makes a last call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry that we missed an update on Sunday, but school's been really rough! I hope you enjoy our newest update.
> 
> Trigger warnings for: mild homophobia, referenced to self-harm/suicide, mild violence

“You’re going to kill me. Did you know that? You’re actually going to kill me. I will perish,” Fortinbras said as Ophelia held her up by her biceps. Her ankles buckled underneath her and the fear in her eyes was as palpable as the morning fog.

“You’ll be fine.” Laughter filled Ophelia’s voice. The only reason she was able to help at all was her oxford pumps gave her a couple on inches on Fortinbras, even in the character shoes. “And I’m going to have to teach you how to dance.”

“Dance?” she gasped. “No, no. I cannot. It is impossible.”

“Hey, you managed to do a lap around the room. You’re doing good.” Ophelia reluctantly let her go once she could stand on her own two feet. Her skin was soft and she could feel the muscle moving underneath. The memory of last night was not doing her any favors at all.

Ophelia’s childhood bed had been small and really not meant for more than one person. And Fortinbras was so sweet and she woke up snuggled against her side. She had the cutest bedhead and the softest sleepy eyes. Ophelia never thought about Hamlet’s sleepy eyes before. Fantastic.

Her situation was also not being helped by Fortinbras’ state of relative undress. A sports bra, shorts, and character shoes sure was a look and it was a look Ophelia could get behind forever. But now they had a job and Horatio was (rather miserably) waiting for them.

Ophelia helped Fortinbras pull on the dress and zip of the back. There was a small spark of something lodged in the back of her throat and she didn’t think it was pride in her artistic work.

“Go! Seduce Hamlet or whatever it is you’re supposed to do in this play,” Ophelia said as she shooed her out of the dressing room. For a moment, she was alone and able to indulge that flurry of feelings that assaulted her chest. These feelings were not friend feelings, but they also weren’t boyfriend/girlfriend feelings. She had those before, but this was something different. It was weird and she simultaneously wanted to get drunk off the feeling and vomit.

“Ophelia!” Polonius burst into the changing room.

“Dad!” she yelped. “You can’t just come in here! What if Fortinbras was here? She’d be mortified.”

“Yeah, yeah, I knew it was just you. And I’ve come to compliment your design--” Something stopped Polonius in his track. “Did Hamlet  burn  you?”

Shit. Fuck. Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest. “ Hamlet  didn’t do anything. I haven’t even seen him since we broke up.”

“Did Horatio burn you?” He wasn’t exactly yelling, but his voice was loud. So loud. Of course, he should be mad. Its horrific and atrocious and she should have never let it happen.

“No,” she snapped. “He could never…”

“Then why, Lamb, is there a cross burned into your chest?”

What was Ophelia supposed to say? ‘Mom’s ghost almost froze me to death and I lost her.’ That wasn’t something that a normal, functional person said to her father. He would...not deal with it well. He hadn’t dealt well then and he definitely wouldn’t react well now.

Ophelia had to think of a convincing lie, now, but what was a convincing lie for this? People did not just casually get crosses burned into their chest. What could she say? She couldn’t think of something even halfway good and her silence just kept growing more and more damning.

“Hey Ophelia!” Fortinbras popped her head into the room. “Horatio requests your presence.”

Ophelia bust have jumped a mile and Polonius gently grabbed her arm. “This conversation isn’t over,” he whispered softly. So he wasn’t mad. He should be mad. She had done a terrible thing. “Have you told Lae or Abuela?” Ophelia nodded. “Okay. Just be safe, Lamb, promise?”

“I promise.” She enveloped her father in a quick hug.

“Did he find out about the--” Fortinbras motioned vaguely to her chest which was more or less the epitome of both of her problems.

“Yeah, yeah.” What else was there to say? Ophelia had no idea.

“Well, things are about to get interesting, Denton,” Fortinbras said.

“Oh god, you don’t mean--”

“I do mean,” she said as she pressed the script into Ophelia’s hands. “I think Horatio’s finally fucking done with stupid people asking him stupid questions. We’re doing one of their emotional scenes, I think. Something about me looking less like a raging bitch.”

“He said that to you?” Ophelia asked, shocked.

“Nah, man. He’s too sweet, but I can infer. We’ll probably have to reteach Hamlet how not to look like a bitch, too. But that might be hopeless.”

“This seems not like a great use of your time,” Ophelia grumbled as she flipped through the script. Exactly one word stuck out to her.  Kiss . Of course, because the world just needed to push one more awful, guilt-ridden thing on her shoulders. Maybe she and Horatio just wouldn’t want to mention anything about it. That would be easiest. No awkward conversations or sticky feelings or anything. Horatio was stressed out beyond belief and teaching Fortinbras to stage kiss probably wasn’t really high on his priority list.

“Wait,” Ophelia said. “Where the fuck is Hamlet?”

“Something about southern France. I don’t know,” Fortinbras shrugged. Great. Another thing to add to her list of miseries. Later.

Fortinbras dragged her on the stage and sat her on a prop bed. Already, this was something that Ophelia didn’t want to think about. But that was the thing, she did want to think about it. She wanted to think about her all the time.

“Okay, from the top,” Horatio barked from the back of the house.

They read through the scene several times and Ophelia was reminded why she never got into acting. Horatio was a hard master to please with an eye for absolute perfection. Normally, Horatio’s natural Horatio-ness kept him in check, but that was when Hamlet was around. And Hamlet was very emphatically not around.

But on the bright side, they didn’t get to the kiss. They just kept running and running and running, until Ophelia didn’t really need to look at the script anymore.

She could just watch Fortinbras’ expressions and the light in her step. She could watch as Fortinbras sat next to her in the bed and as she rested her hand on her knee. Ophelia watched the manufactured love and joy glow behind her grey eyes and something that seemed less like an effort.

The easiest thing was the gentle brush of Fortinbras’ thumb against her cheek and the soft press their lips. It wasn’t a stage kiss. It was anything but. And Ophelia couldn’t kiss her back. Fortinbras’ lips were soft and tasted faintly of apple honey. What Ophelia wouldn’t give to be able to twine her arms around her waist and kiss.

But she couldn’t, so she ran.

* * *

“Uh, cut? I guess?” Horatio said as he watched Ophelia book it off the stage and through the theater’s side door. Standing up from the back of the house, he carefully picked his way towards Fortinbras, who was still sitting on the stage, looking very pink and very distressed.

“Are you okay?” Horatio asked.

Fortinbras snapped back to awareness. She blinked a few times before nodding.

Horatio glanced to the side door. “...Is she okay?”

Fortinbras made a sound of mild distress and waved her arms.

Horatio nodded like he understood even though he was completely lost. “You, uh...You know that’s not how you stage kiss, right?”

“Yeah.” Fortinbras said helplessly.

“...‘Cause you put the thumb in front of the other person’s lips so that you don’t actually…”

“Yup. I got it.”

“Cool.” He checked to see if Ophelia was back then glanced to his notes. “Well,” he said reluctantly, “that’s probably all we can get done today.”

Fortinbras took a deep breath and scrubbed her face. When she stood up, she appeared only slightly more collected. “I should go check on Ophelia.” She said quickly.

“Don’t bother.” Horatio inserted. “She’s probably already halfway to her brother’s apartment by now.”

Fortinbras grimaced, looking significantly guilty and significantly more bashful. Both feelings Horatio could empathize with well. Therefore, despite his natural instinct to make a hasty escape from what may well be an emotionally loaded conversation, Horatio pulled himself up onto the stage and sat on the lip. “It’s alright.” He said comfortingly. “You just caught her off guard and triggered her fight-or-flight mechanism.”

Fortinbras eyed him for a moment before collapsing on the stage beside him. She kicked off her character shoes. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She said.

“I mean, you were going to have to eventually. Ophelia wasn’t going to make the first move.” Horatio shrugged.

“But I shouldn’t have done it like that.” Fortinbras emphasized, dropping her head into her hands. “God, she probably thinks I’m some kind of creep now.”

“She’s an arts kid.” Horatio said. “The whole ‘was it a kiss or was it a stage kiss’ scenario has probably fueled her wet dreams since age fifteen.” In fact, Horatio knew for a fact that it had. They’d had a whole discussion about it during finals week of their freshman year.

“Yeah but-” Fortinbras started.

“You’re okay.” Horatio cut her off. “She’s just being Ophelia.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Horatio shot her a doubtful glance. “Yes you do.” It didn’t take a genius, after all, to see how head over heels Ophelia was for Fortinbras, even if he’d never pegged her as the fall fast and hard type before. That was usually Horatio’s job.

“Yeah I do.” Fortinbras sighed.

There was a beat of awkward and embarrassed silence indicating that both he and Fortinbras had reached the end of their shared interests. Horatio tapped his clipboard on the stage to break it. “I’m going to let the crew know they can head out for the day. Feel free to snag anyone around if you need help taking off the dress.”

“Sure.” Fortinbras said. “But, actually...can I ask you a question first?”

“Shoot.” Horatio said pleasantly, figuring it would be something about staging or proper stage kissing and thus back in his comfort zone.

“Do you have the crucifix?”

Except it wasn’t because the universe liked to torture him for sport. “No.” Horatio said evenly. “Have you not found it yet?”

Fortinbras demeanor shifted in an instant, becoming stiff and distrustful. “No. And we’ve looked pretty much everywhere.”

“That’s unfortunate. If there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know.” Horatio said while tapping into a well of fake sympathy he didn’t know he possessed. He sounded so confident in his answers, he almost believed them himself.

“Yeah.” Fortinbras grabbed Horatio’s sleeve as he stood, pulling him back down. “The thing is, though, you were the last one to have it. Are you positive you don’t remember anything about where it might be?9” The accussion in her voice made Horatio bristle.

“I was pretty out of it.” He said pointedly. Irritation leaked into his voice unbidden. “You know, as tends to happen when you deal with unsettled spirits. Maybe it got lost in the bedsheets.”

Fortinbras narrowed her gaze. “Nice necklace.” She said coolly and Horatio’s hand snapped to his neck as he realized his mistake. Silently cursing the heat of the theater which forced him to take off his jacket, he smiled sharply.

“Thank you. It was a present from my mom.” Horatio returned with equal coldness.

“Funny how it looks nearly identical to Ophelia’s.” Fortinbras challenged.

“All Catholic parents shop at the same outlet store.” Horatio said in deadpan. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

With ease, Fortinbras launched herself to her feet and snagged the chain around Horatio’s neck, pulling the cross out from under his shirt. Horatio just barely resisted the urge to snap Fortinbras’ wrist by clenching the fabric of his jeans.

“Let go.” He ordered.

“Or what?”

A few choice images flashed through his mind but Horatio didn’t dare give voice to any of them. He suddenly felt very sick and very much wanted Hamlet. “Let go.” He repeated. “I won’t ask again.”

Fortinbras tightened her grip, seemingly unbothered by the pulsing heat of the chain. “I could take this from you easily.” She warned. It wasn’t an exaggeration either. Horatio was in shape but there’s no way he would come out on top if he tried to wrestle a rugby player.

“Then I’ll just find it again.” Horatio said surely. “You can’t keep her hidden from me forever.”

“Is that a threat?” Fortinbras said.

“A threat would imply that I have reason to fear you.” Horatio pointed out.

“And you don’t think you do?”

“Not in the least.” Horatio smiled pleasantly. His skin was beginning to blister from contact with the cross. Or maybe it just felt like it. He wasn’t entirely sure.

Fortinbras glowered at him, anger now on full display as she stepped closer. “You’re a wonderful actor, you know. You almost had me tricked with all that awkward, sweet ‘oh I simply feel terrible’ crap but I guess the truth always comes out eventually.”

“And what’s the truth?” Horatio asked curiously.

“That you’re a lying, conniving piece of shit.”

“Conniving?” Horatio raised an eyebrow. “Wow, Fortinbras, I didn’t realize you knew words that big. Testing out your word of the day calendar?”

Fortinbras finally released the chain, offering Horatio a brief breath of relief, before twisting her hands into his shirt like he was the nerd out of a high school eighties movie. He actually laughed at the mental image.

“Oh no, don’t take all my lunch money!” Horatio pretended to cry as Fortinbras dragged him back from the lip of the stage.

“Listen,” Fortinbras bit out, “I could believe that the ghost summoning thing actually fucked you up and made you act weird. I could even believe that what happened with Hamlet was an honest mistake or something you might feel bad about. But this is too much. Don’t you care about Ophelia at all?”

The words stopped Horatio short, a spill of nervousness creeping up his throat. He stared at her aghast. “Of course I care about Ophelia.” He said. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

Fortinbras scoffed. “So you lying to her is caring now.”

“Yes.” He said with desperation. “I’m keeping her safe from me.”

Fortinbras scowl melted away into confusion. “You?” She asked slowly. “Horatio, why would Ophlelia need to be safe from you?”

He blinked at her. “Who’s Horatio?” He asked dumbly.

Fortinbras released him without warning, drawing back and sending him tumbling onto the stage. He hit his tailbone hard.

“Jesus!” Horatio said, rubbing at the sore spot as he glared weakly at Fortinbras. “What was that for?”

Fortinbras stared at him like he’d just announced he was giving creative freedom to the actors to do whatever they deemed best for his play. She took another step backwards. “What did you just say?” She asked and her voice seemed almost afraid.

“I said don’t take my fucking lunch money.” Horatio grumbled. When he tried to stand, he ended up listing to one side and had to catch himself on the bed. His knees shook like he’d just run a marathon and his stomach churned unpleasantly thick.

Horatio noticed Fortinbras still standing behind him and forced himself to stand straight. “I need to hold onto the crucifix for now.” He said. “I promise I’ll give it back to Ophelia soon, okay?”

He didn’t give Fortinbras time to respond or argue, pushing past her and towards the back of the stage. There weren’t many places he could go that she wouldn’t follow so he eventually decided to risk climbing to the catwalk on quaking legs. The metal grating was cold and rough against his jeans as he sat to the far side of the lights.

With oddly numb fingers, Horatio pulled the crucifix out. So Ophelia knew now. Or she would soon. Which was great, great, absolutely fabulous. Now that he was alone, Horatio could feel acutely the raw guilt seeking to tear apart his innards. Another betrayal against Ophelia and Horatio could make a list of all the ways he was ruining her trust. He needed to deal with the necklace, he needed to deal with  her. Soon. Soon as in now.

Horatio dug his phone out of his jeans and opened up a new page. A few minutes of googling revealed what he was looking for. An old church only a few miles away. A church with limited security and a graveyard.

“Okay.” Horatio whispered.

He listened for a moment but couldn’t hear anyone lingering beneath him so he exited out of the internet page and pulled up his contacts.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

“You’ve reached the phone of Hamlet Louis-Etienne  Kierkegaard.”  Osric’s prerecorded message greeted him.  “No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message and someone will get back to you within three business days.”

Horatio cursed as the phone buzzed. “Hey, Hamlet.” He said. “This is Horatio. Just giving you a call. I was hoping to catch you before you got on the ship but I’m guessing I missed my window…” He fiddled with the edge of his shirt. “Uh, give me a call back at some point. When you reach the island or get settled or whatever. I’ll be up a while so...yeah. Call me. Miss you.”

He hung up and sat in silence for a second. With an absence of distraction, the full weight of what he’d said to Fortinbras sank its teeth in with a vengeance. Taunting a varsity rugby player and fucking with the sister of the second best fencer on his team. Plus Ophelia herself. Basically daring them to come take the crucifix from him.

“Oh, I’m screwed.”

* * *

Hamlet paced back and forth along the bow of the ship. It was...not exactly as he’d expected. To be fair, he had utterly no idea what he was expecting, but this was definitively not it. Monsieur Jerome was evidently more of a Capitaine Jerome, since he had a crew, and his ‘modest shipping vessel’ was really more of a 1970’s version of a proper imperial ship. Oh, and Hamlet was nearly completely certain that nothing they were shipping was legal. Lots of ever-so-slightly off sounding versions of the big brands in nearly everything ranging Dolce & Gabana to Versace. Hamlet knew that either the merchandise was stolen or counterfeit, since none of those brands would ever allow their products to be shipped in unsealed boxes that could get exposed to moisture or debris. The crew, at the very least, seemed content to ignore him. It was only...four hours to the island. He could survive high-end pirates for four hours.

“Bonjour, garçon,” Jerome said. Hamlet glared at him.

“I know you speak English, Jerome,” he snapped. “And don’t call me ‘boy.’ It’s creepy.”

“The crew is asking questions about why a little Parisian prince is calling on our services,” Jerome smiled. “Their questions can be a bit...méchant, si tu comprends.”

“How much more money do they need?” Hamlet groaned. This was already costing him so much more than the advertised price. “And it’s  vous to you. We are not friends.” 

Jerome’s smile bittered slightly, but stayed nonetheless. “Your French was so good on the phone, non? Cat got your tongue now?”

“Money, Jerome. How much money will it take for your crew to leave me alone?” Hamlet asked, bristling slightly with fear. By his estimate, there were about six other people on this godforsaken ship, and all of them had at least fifty pounds on him, and, being the domesticated creature he was, he hadn’t thought to bring a knife or a gun. That was usually Osric’s job.

“I’d say another two hundred euro per man will keep you safe,” Jerome said darkly. Hamlet scowled at him.

“Do you happen to have a card reader?” Hamlet sighed. “I’m afraid I only brought enough cash for the initial amount you quoted me.”

“We have card,” Jerome smiled brightly, evidently recovered. “This way.”

Hamlet reluctantly followed him into the ship’s cabin, where he spent another 1400€. He decided it was a bit like health insurance, given that there was a high probability that if he were kidnapped out here he’d never be seen again. And Jerome, at least, seemed able to hide a body.

“Do you happen to know where I can find cell signal on this ship?” Hamlet asked miserably, hating each pitch and sway the vessel took in the choppy water.

“Climb up to the roof of the cabin,” Jerome said with disinterest. He was focusing on the ship’s navigation. “You said you need to get to the nutso demon-man’s island?”

“Yes,” Hamlet said as he tried to see a convenient way to the roof.

“You’re going to lose your soul,” Jerome warned, briefly doing the sign of the cross.

“I don’t have a soul,” Hamlet said with half-attention. “How do I get up on the roof?”

“You’re a young man,” Jerome said. “You should be strong enough to pull yourself up.”

Hamlet shot him daggers. “I might break a nail.”

Jerome raised a brow. “Vous êtes homosexuel?” He asked with clear distaste.

“No,” Hamlet said through grit teeth. “Now, I want a ladder. Or something. Anything that won’t ruin my hands.”

“If the crew finds out, you’re done for,” Jerome warned. He did, however, hand him a step ladder.

“I told you,” Hamlet said as he exited the cabin. “I’m not gay.” He slammed the door behind him, setting up the step ladder on top of a large crate and climbing onto the cabin roof, nice and far above the rest of the evidently cutthroat crew. He took out his phone. Finally, after nearly two hours of having utterly no signal, he had a bar. He opened up his contacts and called Horatio, who by some miracle answered after the first ring.

“Hamlet,” Horatio breathed. He only said his name in that voice when he was either desperately worried or desperately horny. Sometimes both.

“Hey,” Hamlet said, frowning at the dirty roof before sitting on it. He crossed his legs and pulled his scarf a little tighter around him. “I tried to call you back a couple hours ago but I didn’t have signal.”

“Are you okay?” Horatio asked. Hamlet sighed, desperate for more than just Horatio’s voice. He picked idly at a wood splinter in the roof.

“I have reason to believe that I’m on a ship with homophobic pirates,” Hamlet said with a hollow laugh.

“What?” Horatio asked in disbelief.

“Luckily I’m not strictly gay, so I might be able to reason my way out of getting beaten or raped or whatever awful thing French pirates might do to me,” Hamlet tried for lighthearted sarcasm, but he could hear Horatio’s breath hitch on the other line.

“This isn’t funny,” Horatio said seriously. Hamlet could hear him pacing. “Where are you now? Did they hurt you?”

“They’ve bled over 2000€ out of me and the ship is filthy, but other than that I’m alright,” Hamlet said reassuringly. “I’m currently sitting on the roof of the ship’s cabin.”

“How long do you need to be on the ship?” Horatio asked miserably.

“Just under four hours,” Hamlet said quietly. “I don’t think I’ll be murdered in that window of time unless I have a complete change in character and try to fuck one of the nasty, burly crew members.”

“Please don’t,” Horatio sighed. “Please don’t get yourself killed by pirates.”

“It could be a fun way to go,” Hamlet smiled. He left his bag down by the crates and he was desperately regretting not having taken Horatio’s shirt up with him. He awkwardly stood and climbed back down to retrieve it.

“What are you doing?” Horatio asked as Hamlet stumbled slightly on the last step.

“I just needed to get something from my bag,” Hamlet said as he struggled to unlock his suitcase and fish out the t-shirt all with one hand. Finally, after nearly a minute of fumbling, he was successful. He locked up the bag again before climbing back up. “Okay, I’m good now,” Hamlet said as he settled himself back down, draping the shirt around his neck on top of his scarf. It still smelled like Horatio, even over the salty air.

“How long are you going to be gone?” Horatio asked, voice impassive. Hamlet closed his eyes and imagined the tightness in Horatio’s jaw. It was always there when he was trying not to emote.

“I don’t know,” Hamlet admitted. “It depends on the medium.”

“How so?” Horatio asked, slight agitation creeping into his voice.

“I’m not sure,” Hamlet said defensively. “Yorick was not at all specific in our correspondences. He said that he’d need to do an intake, which might take hours or days, and then he needs to, I don’t know. Commune.”

“Commune?” Horatio sighed.

“Yeah,” Hamlet held the shirt over his mouth and nose as he felt a wave of anxiety. This was crazy, wasn’t it? He was on a ship with actual pirates, and literally no one but him knew where he was going.

“Will you have cell signal?” Horatio asked.

“Why?” Hamlet smiled into the shirt. “Miss me that badly already?”

“I want to be able to know you haven’t been murdered or kidnapped.” Horatio said stiffly. Hamlet closed his eyes and nuzzled into the shirt and the scarf.  He missed Horatio that badly already.

“I won’t be murdered or kidnapped,” Hamlet said with false certainty. “Has Osric shut down the city yet?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Osric in days, actually,” Horatio said thoughtfully.

“He probably flew to Paris the minute he realized I was gone,” Hamlet said, letting himself marvel slightly at the sunset over the ocean. It really was something, being out here so far from society. Maybe he could do this again, but with Horatio.

“Probably,” Horatio said quietly. There was a long silence.

“Have you ever been to the Mediterranean?” Hamlet asked.

“Nope,” Horatio said.

“You’ll have to come see it,” Hamlet said with a soft smile to himself. What a joy it would be to fly out to some old villa and shut off their phones for a week or two.

“Plane tickets are expensive,” Horatio said.

“My treat,” Hamlet said easily.

“You know I wouldn’t-”

“You can pay me back with your body,” Hamlet whispered seductively, making very sure no one was around to hear him.

“Didn’t you just say you were surrounded by homophobic pirates?” Horatio sighed nervously. “Maybe we should save this conversation for when you’re back.”

“We can go to Rome,” Hamlet mused. “Oh, we should go to Greece, too,” Hamlet said airily, imagining what it would take to get Horatio to dress up as a gladiator. Probably just some strong wine and the promise of an enthusiastic blowjob.

“This is already sounding like a prohibitively expensive trip,” Horatio said with weak sternness.

“How do you know?” Hamlet laughed. “I can be a cheap date.”

“No you can’t,” Horatio said flatly. “You’d probably drop thousands of dollars in order to get a ‘rustic’ cottage experience.”

“Hush,” Hamlet smirked. “Like I said, my treat.”

“I won’t take your money,” Horatio said weakly.

“Like I said,” Hamlet grinned like a cat, dropping his voice down to a whisper. “You can pay me back with your beautiful cock. Oh, and by perhaps helping me live through some regionally-appropriate fantasies involving gladiators and bathhouses.” There was a pause. He could practically hear Horatio trying to reason with his insane sex drive.

“I’ll think about it,” Horatio finally said.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Hamlet hummed, pulling his heavy knit cardigan tighter around himself as the sun went down.

“I’d personally prefer Paris,” Horatio said. “You know. The aesthetics and all that.”

“Paris is fine,” Hamlet grimaced. “What particular scenes did you have in mind? We can play sad Jazz-Age debutante quite easily in New York.”

“Yeah,” Horatio conceded. “But we don’t.”

Hamlet raised his brows, stifling a laugh. “Are you asking to do role play?”

“No,” Horatio said defensively. Hamlet snorted.

“I’ll wear a flapper dress and pearls whenever you’d like,” Hamlet said quietly, still afraid to be overheard. “Though...you probably had something more like Nick Carraway in mind.”

“Gatsby, actually,” Horatio said, slightly wistfully.

“Oh, even better,” Hamlet laughed. “ You can wear the flapper dress.”

“I’m not going to be Daisy,” Horatio said, though Hamlet could hear the slight laughter in his voice.

“You can be Nick, then,” Hamlet mused. “You can love me and loathe me and be horribly disgusted by my honest dishonesty.” He felt an odd anxiety permeate his chest. He’d added ‘love’ to that list by accident.

“I’m afraid I don’t have entire chapters of the book memorized like you do,” Horatio said after a pause. “I might make for a bad narrator.”

“It’s not my fault you lack a photographic memory,” Hamlet said condescendingly.

“You don’t actually have a photographic memory,” Horatio said confidently. “...Right?”

Hamlet grinned to himself, pulling up in his mind the latest thing he’d read. He took a deep breath and prepared his best monologue pacing and tone:

“In folklore, a revenant is an animated corpse that is believed to have revived from death to haunt the living. The word  revenant is derived from the Old French word,  _ revenant _ , the "returning" (see also the related French verb  _ revenir _ , meaning "to come back"). Revenants are part of the legend of various cultures, including Old Irish Celtic and Norse mythology, and stories of supposed revenant visitations were documented by English historians in the Middle Ages.”

“You probably had that open on your phone,” Horatio said after a pause.

“Would you rather I quote a block of text from your play?” Hamlet said with pride. “I can remember anything that I’ve read closely in the past three days.”

“As if you’ve ever read my play closely,” Horatio scoffed. “We need to remind you of what the actual stage directions are every other rehearsal.”

“No, you’re just wrong,” Hamlet said haughtily. “You aren’t respecting my artistic license with my character.”

“My character that I gave you,” Horatio corrected. “Anyways, it’s always so blatant that you just don’t want to be within a foot of Fortinbras.”

“Can you blame me?” Hamlet said, lying down across the roof and looking up at the twilight sky. The brightest stars were already starting to appear. “Anyways, I just feel that Denton would have lain across the fainting couch at the end of act two instead of sitting beside Imogen. He’s supposed to be miserable, isn’t he?”

“He’s supposed to love Imogen,” Horatio countered.

“If I were in love with Imogen, I’d lay across the fainting couch,” Hamlet said contentedly. Picking a safe argument was always the easiest way to insure that Horatio would keep talking, and thus that he could keep listening to his voice.

“You wouldn’t love Imogen,” Horatio sighed. “She isn’t your type.”

“And what is my type?” Hamlet asked playfully.

“Indulgent and enabling,” Horatio said without even a trace of hesitation. “Or games.”

“Laertes was a fun one, wasn’t he?” Hamlet said wistfully. “God, some of his hickeys were really just proper bruises.”

“Laertes was not a fun one,” Horatio said tiredly. “I’m pretty sure Osric was never fully convinced that he wasn’t abusing you.”

“Osric doesn’t know what sex is,” Hamlet snickered.

“I’m pretty sure Osric knows what sex is,” Horatio said skeptically. Hamlet didn’t really know what to say to that, since he didn’t have evidence for either case. There was a long pause. “How are you doing? Like,  _ really _ doing?” Horatio asked seriously.

Hamlet’s smile flickered and faded. He pulled the shirt from around his neck and held it to his lips, considering briefly fully confiding in Horatio about how much harder this trip was. Normally he had his father. Or Horatio. He wasn’t used to having neither. He was scared, too, he’d decided now that it was dark. He didn’t want to be around the crew of the ship anymore. “I’m okay,” he said. He heard Horatio sigh.

“Are you actually?” Horatio asked.

“I’m...fine,” Hamlet said, muffled slightly through the shirt. “My anxiety and insomnia have gotten worse again,” he admitted.

“Are you, you know. Safe?” Horatio asked cautiously.

“From the pirates? Remains to be seen,” Hamlet replied, knowingly dodging the real question. He twisted his fingers into the stolen t-shirt.

“From yourself,” Horatio specified. Hamlet chewed the inside of his cheek.

“I am,” Hamlet said, aware that it sounded weak.

“But?”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Hamlet said more firmly, irritation creeping in. He didn’t like the parental nagging tone in Horatio’s voice.

“Be honest,” Horatio said with abrupt sharpness. His crisis voice. The same tone he’d used when he pulled the glass out of his foot.

“I’m okay.” Hamlet snarled, bristling with the guilt and embarrassment of his previous entanglements with insanity. Horatio sounded like his mother, back when he first danced with depression in high school.

“Hamlet, I’m serious,” Horatio said with earnest solidity. Hamlet wished he’d just yell at him or lose his cool like Ophelia would. Then he’d have just cause to hang up.

“I don’t have any access to alcohol nor do I have a razor, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hamlet hissed. “So no, even if I desired to paint Yorick’s island red I doubt I’d be able to.”

Horatio sighed. He probably ran a hand through his mussed-up curls. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Horatio said, cool and rational as always.

“And we’ll have to see,” Hamlet said sharply, though his edge was quickly wearing off. “I’m currently fine, since I got five hours of sleep last night. I won’t know how it’ll be until I know how well I’ll be sleeping.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” Horatio asked, gentle yet firm.

“I...don’t know,” Hamlet lied. He knew for damn certain he’d be unable to sleep at all tonight, and it was unlikely that he’d do much better on the island.

“Will you be able to call?” Horatio asked patiently.

“I don’t know,” Hamlet grumbled, worry taking him over. “I hope so,” he added before he could stop himself. He heard the quiet vibration of his phone that warned him his battery was about to die. “My phone’s about to kick it,” he said miserably.

“Mine too, probably,” Horatio sighed. “Please be safe.” Hamlet chewed his lip nervously.

“Horatio, kiss the phone,” he commanded quickly.

“What? Why?” Horatio asked, evidently taken aback.

“Just do it,” Hamlet rolled his eyes. “I’ll do it at the same time.”

“Okay?” Horatio said skeptically. “When?”

“Do it now and count to three or something in your head,” Hamlet instructed.

“Okay...” Horatio said awkwardly. Hamlet nodded to himself and kissed the bottom of his phone screen, near where the mic was. He counted to four, just to be safe.

“Did you do it?” Hamlet asked.

“Yeah,” Horatio said. “I think I might have cut my lip a little. My screen is cracked.”

Hamlet smiled. “I didn’t tell you to make out with it,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t have to,” Horatio said seriously. “Glass is sharp.”

“I know,” Hamlet said grimly. His foot still hurt sometimes. “Goodnight, Horatio.”

“Goodnight,” Horatio said softly. He may have started to say something else, but Hamlet’s phone died. He climbed down from his spot on the roof to throw his suitcase up with him, just to be safe. He didn’t sleep, but stars were out and the shirt still smelled like home.


	24. New Relationships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia talks about love. Horatio practices breaking and entering. Hamlet organizes shells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope you're enjoying the story so far!
> 
> Trigger warnings: references to eating disorders, suicidal thoughts, and death.

Despite what Horatio or Hamlet or anyone else thought, Ophelia wasn’t going to her brother’s apartment. She didn’t need to, because she ran into him headfirst when she was trying to escape. This meant that he was acutely aware that Ophelia was anything but alright and she did not have the energy to stop. The longer she stayed in this building, the more likely a chance that she would have to talk to Fortinbras or Horatio. He would call anyway. Laertes always called.

Ophelia ditched the shoes about a block before she got to her dorm. She didn’t care that people looked at her weird. Her feet burned both from running in the heels and the grit of the New York pavement. Fortinbras was absolutely right. Shoes like these were deathtraps. 

She had barely even collapsed in her bed when her phone rang. She did, actually, consider not picking it up, but she couldn’t do that to Laertes, not with her display from earlier. 

“Hey Ophie,” he said. Fan-fucking-tastic. They were leading off with childhood nicknames. She was doomed. “I heard you had some trouble at rehearsal today.”

“Where did you hear that from?” Ophelia tried to keep her voice under control, but she could already feel the tears in her eyes and her voice would be the next to go. 

“I ran into Fortinbras after you ran into me. She uhh, she told me what happened, Ophie. Uhhh, we had kinda a long talk, actually. I’m with Dad right now. He has his worried face on. Listen, I need to pop down to your area to talk with Horatio tomorrow, can I come by your apartment?”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Her breath hitched and she was positive that Laertes noticed. 

“Or we can talk now,” he suggested. “I can make Dad go somewhere else.” Ophelia could hear a brief noise of protest. 

“No, it’s fine,” Ophelia wasn’t even sure what she could say. She wanted Fortinbras so bad; they could talk through what happened and what it meant and what they were trying to do. It could have just been a stage kiss. The thought sank like lead in Ophelia’s stomach. What if it was just a stage kiss? She pulled herself together. “I need to talk to Dad about the burn.” 

“The burn,” Laertes turned the words over in his head before they stuck. “Oh,  _ oh _ . And what do you think you’ll say?”

“That I lost Mom again!” Ophelia couldn’t keep it under control anymore. “I had her back and I lost her again! Lae! She’s all alone and it’s my fault! We could have done something! We could have helped!” She could feel the tight coils of threads around that part of her heart unraveling. “She should have come with us! We left her alone and she died alone and now I’ve lost her!”

“Ophie, it’s not--”

Her father wrestled the phone away from a panicked Laertes. “Lamb, talk to me. Alright? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

There was no point in lying now, not that Ophelia’s grief addled brain could have figured that out anyway. “Abuela gave me Mom’s crucifix and I lost it,” she sobbed.

“Ophie, it’s not that big of a deal. You’ll find it; it’s not like it disappeared into the void,” he dad said gently. “How did it burn you?” His voice twinge with something between desperation and horror. The implication was that someone had to have burned her with it. Reality was worse.

"Mom’s inside it and we were trying to talk to Letta’s ghost and it got so cold and it hurt and I fell asleep and she tried to save me and I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I lost Mom and now she’s alone!” She was hyperventilating.

Panic. She had panicked more in the past week than in the rest of her life combined. She wasn’t supposed to panic. She was supposed to be courageous and strong and reliable. She was supposed to be like her mom.

“Lamb, that doesn’t make any sense…”

“Ask Laertes,” Ophelia instantly felt guilt for throwing her brother under the bus like that. “He saw. He saw what happened.”

There was a pained sigh and then words of affirmation behind the other line. 

“Ophelia, she’s dead. She’s not coming back.” She could easily imagine her dad brushing her hair to calm her down like when she was little. “I don’t know...Why didn’t you tell me?” There were tears in his voice too. Ophelia had never been allowed to see him cry before. “I know it’s hard, Lamb. I’m not going to leave you to deal with this alone.”

“But you did.” Ophelia didn’t mean to say it. In her head, she saw conversations with other Catholic nine year olds about how her mom froze to death. They hadn’t known what to say. How could they have? And no adult believed her either. Kids and their overactive imaginations; trying to make sense of things they could never understand. But Ophelia knew. She  _ knew _ . 

“I know,” her father’s voice broke into a million shards of glass. “I’m so sorry. I’m not going to do it again. I’m coming by--”

“Tomorrow!” Laertes said, grabbing the receiver. “A friend is coming with her puppy,” he said to Ophelia. 

“Laertes, I think this is more important than--”

“No, it’ll help,” Laertes was certain. “I promise, it’ll be one less thing to deal with tomorrow.” 

“Ophie? Lamb?” her father asked. “Are you going to be safe?”

“I’ll be safe,” she agreed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you, Lamb.”

“I love you too, Dad.” And Ophelia hung up. 

As if on cue, there was a small knock at the door and the scuffling of tiny dog claws. There was no way Ophelia was going to be able to hide the evidence of that she had been crying, so she just opened the door. And there was Fortinbras, eyes also just the shyest twinge of pink. Ophelia let her into the bedroom and sat on the bed. Fortinbras hesitated for a moment but sat next to her. Babadook nestled to Ophelia’s side and put her head on her lap. She must have noticed Ophelia’s tears because she reached a hand towards her cheek before pulling away like she had been burned. 

“Ophelia, I’m really sorry,” Fortinbras said. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. It was selfish and rude and I should have tried to talk to you first. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

“I...I,” Ophleia stammered. What was there to forgive? There was nothing wrong. It wasn’t like it was Fortinbras’ fault she couldn’t properly process her feelings. “Then do you regret…”

“No!” Fortinbras laughed lightly and ran a nervous hand through her hair. “No, I had wanted to kiss you for so long. I kinda had thought that we had started dating and you just wanted to move really slow.” She looked mortified. “And that’s why I should talk to you more about my feelings. If you want to,” she added quietly. 

“I do want to,” Ophelia said. “I really wanted...but I didn’t think...and now…”

“I’ve got to warn you, my feelings are pretty screwed up.”

“Join the club,” Ophelia laughed weakly. “We can handle it. Together.”

Fortinbras took Ophelia’s hands into her own. “So we’re girlfriends,” she confirmed. 

“Girlfriends,” Ophelia agreed, a genuine smile spreading through the redness of her eyes. “Will you kiss me again?”

“Of course.” Fortinbras ran the thumbs over Ophelia’s cheeks and under the curve of her jaw before pulling her into a sweet kiss. Her lips were soft and still tasted of honeyed apples. Ophelia was able to kiss her back and chase away the cold that had lodged itself deep in her chest. She settled her arms on Fortinbras’ hips and she moved even closer. She ran her fingers through Ophelia’s hair and broke away only to press smaller kisses to her cheeks and nose. They pressed their foreheads together for a brief, quiet moment.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Ophelia asked.

Fortinbras kissed the top of her head and held her hands, thumb running gently over the still healing marks. “Please.”

The bed was too small for two people, but now instead of consigning herself to vague discomfort for the night, Ophelia could hold Fortinbras in her arms and sleep.

* * *

Emboldened. That’s what Horatio felt. That’s what was running through his blood, a fiery eagerness, a wild release, something quite unlike his usual mien. Not to say that Horatio was normally a coward but he never was passion’s slave, even in his wildest, horniest, most crisis driven hours. He planned. He prepared. He swept calm uncertainty throughout his system and decided to act despite the risks. Reckless bravery, after all, was best left to those like Ophelia and Hamlet, people gifted with the charisma and internal strength to recover from any burn.

But in that moment? Horatio felt like he could wage war.

Horatio adjusted his earphones and sized up the decrepit little church in front of him. He hadn’t been in a church of any kind since he was a teenager and, in that moment, he felt lonelier for the fact. Even if Catholicism had always been a prison at its core, religion had once been a home. Now, however, it was something different. It was a training ground.

Horatio pushed open the wide oak door and strode inside, pausing only to load his dollar store water pistol up with holy water from the basin by the door. He tucked the anti-demon weapon into his belt and yanked the crucifix out from under his shirt. He wrapped the cheap plastic rosary around the chain.

“Okay, Ariche.” He said, stowing his earbuds. “Let’s figure out how to talk to ghosts.”

It was a simple enough matter to find the gravestones embedded in the floor of the church’s little chapel. He knelt in front of the first one and passed his hand over the name to brush away an excess of dust. 

_ Helena Ricci _

_ August 23, 1848 – June 13, 1942 _

_ Loving Mother and Wife _

Horatio swung his bag off his back and dug out the now much dreaded ouija board and bright red palachette. He hesitated as his hands ghosted above the solid wooden surface. Horatio told Hamlet no more spirits while he was gone. Furthermore, he didn’t know anything about the people buried in this church. He should have waited another day, researched, made sure the population here was peaceful and settled in their deaths. But he just couldn’t wait. Not while this red bravery fueling him on.

Horatio set his hands down and spoke into the dark, cavernous space. “Hello.”

He stared at the grave in front of him, willing it to produce. There was only a deep silence, cold and rapturous. Horatio shivered despite himself. 

“Hello.” He repeated. Then with renewed strength, “My name is Horatio di Levanti. Is there anyone here?”

The palachette remained impassive though the cross around his neck seemed to gain heft, like an anvil on its last thread. 

“I’m not leaving until someone talks to me.” Horatio announced stubbornly. “I summon the spirits. Speak to me. I seek thy wisdom and, uh, ye old gossip.”

The palachette shifted, sending a skitter of impatience up his arms like fire ants. Horatio grinned. “Yes…” He breathed. “Yeah, I’m annoying as shit, aren’t I? Speak to me and maybe I’ll shut up.”

A morose pause. Then the palachette was off, flying to and fro. As it moved, Horatio focused on his hands, keeping them steady and true to the board.

C-O-S-A V-U-O-I C-H-E S-T-U-P-I-D-O R-A-G-A-Z-Z-I-N-O.

More irritation, a vague swelling of the blood. 

Horatio took a breath and, picturing his soul as an iron door, swung it wide. The influx of feedback was instantly overwhelming but Horatio refused to surrender to the dizzying vastness which constituted an existence not his own. Instead, he rode the wave, floating along the crest on the promise that it wouldn’t break and drown him. 

“I can’t speak Italian.” Horatio heard himself say distantly. Not strictly true, of course, but he didn’t think the grandma ghost he was summoning would be forgiving of a vocabulary consisting mostly curse words and sexual innuendos. The waves pulsed and settled.

W-H-O A-R-E Y-O-U, the board spelled out. 

Confusion and fatigued fear. 

Horatio shook the latter out of bones like a pigeon shedding oil. “My name is Horatio.”

YES, the spirit sighed impatiently. W-H-O.

“I’m a medium. I think.”

O-B-V-I-O-U-S-L-Y.

Horatio hummed as the ghost seemed to give him a once over. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened his soul wider, actually giggling when the efforts produced a flood of new emotions: boredom, discontent, old lady judgement, brown eyes, a husband, accomplishment, hulls white with barnacles and sea foam, a vivid countryside draped in white wine sun, tall buildings haloed in neon lights, a little girl with a bright pink dress. Horatio smiled with his eyes still closed. “Your children were beautiful.” He said happily.

YES, the ghost spelled happily.  _ “They were.” _

Horatio snapped his eyes open as the ghost spoke aloud, shattering his concentration. He stared hard at the space where she should have been; where he thought, for an instant, she may have been. As the waves leaked out of his knees, they left only frigid peacefulness.

“I did it.” Horatio said numbly. He glanced to the board and beamed. “I…actually did it.”

Ariche didn’t seem as enthused as he did but the chain remained a settled weight, still as if in sleep. He could feel the brushes of tender memories radiating off her and, for the first time since donning the necklace, Horatio felt a measure of fondness for the woman inside. Nevertheless, he was not confident enough to push his way down that particular rabbit hole again so Horatio refocused on the lingering spirit of Helena Ricci. He had some practicing to do.

He remained kneeling on the ground all night, guiding the palachette in a demented imitation of prayer, letting the story and sensory of the spirit wash through him. In and out. No holding onto it, no internalizing, just skimming the surface and letting the memories pass. By the time dawn’s gentle light wandered in through the purple stained glass, the pursuit of war within him had dimmed to a kindling flame of pride.

The light chased the spirit away.

Horatio smiled as he tucked the board back into his messenger bag and unwrapped the rosary from his neck. He ran a palm along the grave marker. “I’ll talk to you again.” He promised. “Next time we’ll see if we can figure out why you’re still here.

He stood and brushed off his pants. Since it was early enough that nobody would be around, Horatio stole a generous portion of the holy water from the basin. He doubted it would be missed if the decaying state of the church was any indication.

He took the long way back to campus. No class till later and thus he had all the time in the world to appreciate how different New York looked now as compared to the glittering vision the spirit had shown him of when she first arrived in the city. In fact, so great was his inner calm that he didn’t even worry when his morning call to Hamlet went straight to voicemail without ringing. Hamlet’s phone was probably still out of battery.

Horatio dug out his earphones again and let music fill the aching absence.

His montage of a sunny morning was soon interrupted, however, as he spied a muscle-bound young man lingering outside his dorm door. Horatio’s stride stuttered before mind caught up to instinct and he recognized Laertes.

“Horatio!” Laertes said with a smile that was anything but and suddenly Horatio wanted to run. However, his renewed anxiety was barely born before it was smothered beneath a burst of overpowering recognition.

“Lae!” Ariche called with a smile of absolute parental pride. “Why are you here?”

Lae frowned at her. “Well, I…” he glanced over her gracefully held form warily. “I need to talk to you. About the crucifix.”

“The crucifix?” Ariche grimaced. She drew a hand to her neck and clutched the family heirloom possessively in her palm. “You can’t have it.” She said firmly.

Lae’s expression twisted then evened out. It was an unbefitting look on her baby, anger. Lae was always such a happy child. 

“Horatio,” Lae repeated, “you have no right to keep it.”

“I’m protecting Ophelia.” Horatio stressed. He took a step back then one forward, conflicting desires to embrace Laertes and flee from him colliding messy and gross in his addled brain. Since when did he want to hug Laertes? He was barely friends with the guy and yet, all Horatio wanted to do was hold him and smooth his hair and talk to him for hours. He courted a brief flash of panic that he might have a crush on Laertes too.

...And Ariche needed to keep her son safe; whatever the cost of that may be. “You need to leave.” She said despite the raw grief that formed the words. She hadn’t seen her son since he was nine and she hardly even recognized the young man he had become ana yet. There he was. Handsome and strong and firm.

“Give me the cross.” Lae said, holding out a hand.

“Now.” Laertes said.

“Sure.” Horatio shot back as snidely as he was able. “Here, I’ll duel you for it.” As he saw Laertes tense, reaching for his gym bag, Horatio whipped out his holy water pistol and aimed squarely for Laertes’ left eye.

In the seconds during which Laertes was distracted, Horatio dodged around him and threw his dorm door closed. He locked it.

“Sorry, Lae.” Ariche muttered. “This is for your own good.”

Horatio heaved a few breaths. He stuck a chair beneath the door handle for good measure as Laertes continued pounding on it, no doubt rousing every single sleep-deprived arts student in the building. 

The pounding grew louder. Laertes didn’t know how to pick locks. There was no way he was that clever, Horatio assured himself. 

Still, it did little to ease him as mounting exhaustion climbed up from his knees, into his chest, and around his swimming head. Horatio was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

“How do you take your tea?” Yorick asked pleasantly. Hamlet had been sitting at the cluttered table for nearly six hours and still felt like he’d only seen a tenth of what the hut contained. There wasn’t an inch of bare space anywhere, and the lines between the floor and the walls were long-since hidden by dusty shelves and stacks of...everything.

“I don’t,” Hamlet said, holding Horatio’s shirt in his lap. He was on...thirty-six hours without sleep. And he only felt a little queasy. 

“You feel lots of anxiety about being offered food and drink,” Yorick stated, putting on the kettle. “Your mother’s control versus your father’s manners.” 

“No,” Hamlet hissed, startled. The entire night had been spent like this. Yorick ignoring him for hours while he read books in scripts Hamlet had never seen before, punctuated only by the announcement of personal facts that he had no business knowing. 

Yorick laughed. “You take your tea with a tablespoon of honey, cinnamon, and milk.” 

“I don’t anymore,” Hamlet bristled, pulling his legs to his chest and hugging them.

“You will,” Yorick said ominously as he brought the kettle and mixed the tea. 

“You’re supposed to tell me how to fix things with my dad,” Hamlet said, scowling at the tea. It did smell appealing. 

“Give me your hand,” Yorick commanded. Hamlet glared at him.

“I don’t like being touched by strangers,” Hamlet said sharply. 

“I’m not a stranger,” Yorick said lightly. “Strangers are people who don’t know anything about you.” 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Hamlet said defensively, tucking his hands under his knees for safety. 

“You were born in Paris to a Danish father and a French-American mother,” Yorick said as he stirred his tea. “Your earliest memory is of your father putting a band-aid on your knee after you fell on a hike in the Alps. You were a happy child in an unhappy house until the age of eight, and you developed a fascination with death when a girl you dated for a week when you were fourteen perished due malnutrition while working in your mother’s modeling agency.” 

Hamlet blinked at him, and felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “You could have googled the last half of that.” He said stiffly.

“I have removed all modern technology from this island,” Yorick smiled. “Your father had warm hands,” he said quietly.

“Stop!” Hamlet cried out, panicking. Now he was starting to feel the lack of sleep.

“Give me your hand,” Yorick said gently, holding out his own. 

“Why?” Hamlet asked miserably. 

“There’s only so much that your aura and your father’s spirit can tell me without direct contact,” Yorick said slowly. Even though his eyes seemed fully opaque due to cataracts, Hamlet felt distinctly seen and watched. 

“Is he here?” Hamlet asked softly. 

“In a way,” Yorick said. Hamlet looked him over and looked at his hand. It was weathered and old, but his nails and skin seemed clean. He loosely gripped his hand, and screamed slightly as Yorick gripped his hand tightly and rolled up his sleeve.

“Let go!” Hamlet shouted, terror and rage commanding him to rip his hand away. He found he had trouble moving. Yorick placed the pad of his thumb directly over the still-deep wound on his wrist.

“You attempted a blood ritual,” Yorick said darkly. “That is magic that no one should attempt without training. And you have not had training. You would have lost a fatal amount of blood from your left wrist, but were saved by the fact you had it pinned under you when you fainted. Your father fed on that negative energy in order to manifest enough will to communicate to you that you were in danger. You have two friends, both who love you, one who would have died with you. You have a second figure; a surrogate father; who healed you,” Yorick paused though he did not take a breath. Hamlet could feel very clearly his heart pulsing under his thumb and it made him want to vomit. 

“Ophelia wouldn’t have died,” Hamlet said weakly. “We were dating but she wouldn’t have killed herself.” 

“She is one of two,” Yorick said. He closed his eyes. “Your father’s spirit is accompanied by a dark shroud. A violent death. The smell of a city street on a summer afternoon. Quick bloodshed followed by--”

“Please stop,” Hamlet cried. He wanted to pull his hand back but it was impossible. He couldn’t get himself to move away. He curled in on himself the second Yorick released his wrist, hugging his hand to his chest. Yorick’s blind eyes settled on him and he gave him an apologetic smile. 

“Drink your tea,” Yorick commanded softly. “It will help you feel better.” 

Hamlet nodded and gripped the mug with trembling hands. It did help him feel a little better, and it smelled and tasted comforting. 

“Here, let me see the shirt,” Yorick said with a kind smile. 

“No,” Hamlet said quietly. 

“I can tell you about him,” Yorick offered. 

“Can you tell me if he loves me?” Hamlet asked, letting curiosity pull through some of his fear. 

“I could,” Yorick smiled, “but I wouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Hamlet frowned. 

“Fate is not a fixed path and I find it best not to meddle with the affairs of the heart,” Yorick said ominously. 

“Then why would I give you the shirt?” Hamlet huffed. 

“Because you miss him,” Yorick said plainly. “And because I can tell you about him.” 

Hamlet sighed but handed him the t-shirt. He watched as Yorick ran his hands over it, his face a mysterious mix of too many thoughts. “What do you, I don’t know. See?” Hamlet asked tersely. 

“He has the gift of true sight,” Yorick said darkly. “Though he lacks an instructor. This will; is, rather; causing him considerable physical and emotional pain.” 

“You said this would help,” Hamlet said frigidly. “This is just making me feel worse.” 

“I did,” Yorick nodded. “He is unlike you. He was an unhappy child in a happy house. Catholic, originally of Italian stock but now American. The last time he wore this shirt was with you,” Yorick smiled, “and you scolded him for wearing it, even though you liked it.” 

“Shut up,” Hamlet said, cheeks tinging pink. 

“I would need to meet him to know as much of him as I do of you,” Yorick said apologetically. “I can tell you more about how you feel for him, though.” 

“Nope. Give it back,” Hamlet said incisively. Yorick obliged, and Hamlet hugged the shirt back against his chest. “I’m here to talk to you about my dad.” 

“Yes, you are,” Yorick smiled. Hamlet’s brows knit in confusion as the old man stood. 

“Where are you going?” Hamlet asked bitterly. 

“I will need a few days to do research and speak to some friends,” Yorick said calmly. “Here, Hamlet, hand me the large book by your side.” 

Hamlet looked at the stack of books beside him. They were all large. “Which one?” 

“I will be needing the one in Ancient Norse,” Yorick said unhelpfully. 

“I don’t know what that looks like,” Hamlet frowned. 

“Yes, you do. Think deeper,” Yorick instructed. Hamlet glared at the stack of books. He grabbed the second one from the top, since it was the one that look like the old runes his father had shown him on a trip to Norway. 

“Can you even read?” Hamlet asked suspiciously. Yorick chuckled.

“Can I read?” He repeated sarcastically. “Boy, I have been reading for longer than any other living person.” 

“Alright then,” Hamlet said. “And what am I supposed to do while you read?” 

“Rest,” Yorick shrugged. “Play on the beach. Search for lizards. I care not so long as you return at meal times to help me cook and clean.” 

“I will not.” Hamlet grimaced at the thought of doing dishes. 

“You will,” Yorick smiled. “Or else I will not assist you.” 

“What?” Hamlet frowned. 

“Not all people wish to be paid in money,” Yorick said. “Now go down to the shore and line up the shells by size like you used to when you were small. Think of good memories with your father, to encourage his spirit to step out of the shadows that bind it.” 

“I...Okay,” Hamlet said skeptically. 

“You may stay out as late as you please,” Yorick said as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor of his hovel. “I do not need to sleep as you do, so all I ask is that you try not to drown yourself in the tides.” 

“Okay?” Hamlet was so confused that he couldn’t even bring himself to be irritated. “Where can I go to bathe?” 

“There is a fresh water pool at the top of the rocky cliff. You may bring the soap I make myself up there, as it won’t harm the environment of the water.” Yorick said as if that made sense and was livable. 

“I have very delicate skin,” Hamlet said haughtily. “I need to use my own products.” 

“Your skin is not more delicate that the salamanders and frogs that live up there,” Yorick said sternly. “Either don’t bathe, or do so with soap that is safe for them.” 

“I--you can’t--” Hamlet sputtered for words. “I’ll go insane!” 

“Sweet prince, you have bigger problems than this,” Yorick said kindly. “Now leave me. I have many hours of reading and medication I must do.” 

“Okay,” Hamlet said, aghast at the strictness of his rules. 

He stormed out of the tiny cottage and jogged down the rocky hill to the beach, taking off his shoes and socks. It was the mediterranean, so the water was warm and the sand was clean in a way that the beaches Hamlet was used to never were. He rolled up his pant legs over his knees, and left his sweater and silk shirt on top of his shoes. The early autumn breeze was still warm this far south, so he didn’t feel too cold. It was actually kind of pleasant. 

“Look at me,” Hamlet said to no one as he reached into the tide and scooped up a sandy shell. “Completely isolated with a lunatic who claims to speak for the dead.” He laughed hollowly, stepping out into the wake. There was nothing but water for as far as he could see, and he found he didn’t actually care that much when the salty waves splashed his tailored pants.

“I wonder if this is what death feels like,” he mumbled to himself as he dipped his fingers into the water. “It’s just you, alone in the middle of absolutely nowhere, unable to talk to any one you know without the help of some fool who can see dead people,” he said, staring out over the gray water, tinged pink at the horizon by the first shreds of dawn. If this was what death felt like then it really wasn’t half bad. 

“I could drown myself,” Hamlet mused, stepping farther out. He felt a varied mix of string emotions at the thought; bittersweet satisfaction and desperate fear. He stared at the water, which soaked him up to his thighs, challenging it to rise up and choke him. Obviously it did not. He stood fast in the tide, closing his eyes and focusing on the crashing of the larger waves against the rocks of the cliff and the breeze in his hair. Something in him settled and warmed.

He took a deep breath of the clean, crisp air and opened his eyes. “I’m going to go find shells, and if I still want to drown myself once I’m done I’ll come back,” he announced to the waves, wading back to the shore. 

It took ages but by the end of it he had combed every inch of the smooth sand from the cliff over to the grassy hill and had picked up every single shell and laid them out on the farthest back edge of the beach according to size and color. All thoughts of drowning were conveniently banished from his restless mind, replaced instead by blinding outrage when the new tide came in and brought with it more shells. 

“Feeling better?” Hamlet leapt as he heard Yorick’s voice behind him.

“No,” Hamlet frowned, glaring at the now-messy shore.

“But you didn’t walk out into the tide to leave this world forever,” Yorick smiled. 

“I suppose not,” Hamlet sulked. “What do you want?”

“It’s dinner time,” Yorick said.

“No it’s not, it’s barely lunch time.” 

“You’ve been out here for almost ten hours,” Yorick said gently.

“Oh,” Hamlet scowled. No wonder he was tired. “What’s for dinner?” 

“I made beef stew,” Yorick said pleasantly. Hamlet grimaced. 

“I don’t eat stew,” he said sharply.

“Then you don’t eat,” Yorick shrugged, heading back to the cottage. 

“ _ What? _ ” Hamlet said in disbelief. No one but his mother had ever dared say that.

“At least come get some sleep,” Yorick said as Hamlet jogged to keep up, scooping up his discarded clothes. 

“I can’t,” Hamlet said miserably. Even with the t-shirt and his sleeping pills it was impossible to be comfortable so far from safety.

“Then you’re going to have a very bad time, if you can’t sleep and won’t eat,” Yorick said as easily as if he were commenting on the weather. 

“I suppose I will,” Hamlet said through his teeth. This was shaping up to be infinitely worse than he thought, and it was only three days since he left New York. At least, hopefully, he’d get some answers soon.

  
  



	25. Precious Possessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia talks to her family. Horatio meets Ariche. Hamlet communes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the delayed posting due to Thanksgiving! Posting will be odd until the end of the semester (around Dec. 16) so bear with us! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Disordered eating, suicidal thoughts, conversations about death

There was something sweet about waking up to Fortinbras making her breakfast. Granted, cooking would have been an overstatement. In reality, she was making chocolate mug cakes and they smelled intoxicating. Ophelia was having a wretched week so a very chocolatey breakfast was welcome. Fortinbras pressed a warm mug into her hands and a kiss to her cheek.

“I was beginning to think you would never wake up,” Fortinbras hummed as she ate her cake.

“Oh god, what time is it?” Ophelia asked. She stretched out her back and rubbed her eyes. It felt like it could have been nine in the morning, but Fortinbras’ face said differently. “Are we going to make it to rehearsal?”

“It is about 1:00PM, my man. And I would  say ...no. I’m not going to rehearsal.”

“Oh?” Ophelia asked. “We could make it…”

“Yeah, you see. The thing is, I don’t want to go. So I’m not.” Fortinbras smiled. “Horatio and I had a bit of a...disagreement and I’m not quite ready to deal with it yet. It’s not like we’re gonna get anything done without Hamlet,” she huffed.

“You and Horatio fought?” Ophelia asked.

“Yeah.” Tension caught in her neck and shoulders. “I’ll tell you when I get other things figured out.”

“Yeah, okay. It can be rough fighting with him. He’s as stubborn as a bull. Hamlet too, they’re just different about it.” Ophelia shrugged. “I hope he’s doing okay in France. I really hope Osric got him a place away from home…”

“Yeah, not to sound completely insensitive, but why should you care? It’s, like, I’ve only ever seen him be a complete ass to you. It doesn’t really seem like you put up with much bullshit.”

“Oh, I don’t really put up with his bullshit either. He’s had it really, really rough.” Ophelia debated the helpfulness of telling Fortinbras all of Hamlet’s history. It would just make everything so much easier. Maybe Ophelia would be wracked by guilt later, but for now she wanted to speak.

“I mean...that doesn’t really give him an excuse to be awful.” Fortinbras frowned. “Especially to you.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I think it helps put some of his...habits into perspective, even if they can be kinda awful.” Ophelia shrugged. “So, I guess, do with this what you will.” Ophelia leaned against Fortinbras’ shoulders. “He was really close with his dad as a kid and his dad, is like. The best. I think I had told you before. Unironically the best man I have ever met. And then there’s his mom. She’s a rabid bitch and wishes he had never been born or that he had been a girl so that she could live vicariously through her, not that it’s ever stopped her. She’s the reason he doesn’t eat. Ever.”

“Ever?” The look of abject disgust on Fortinbras’ face filled the entire room.

“Ever. If it has calories, it’s bad and that’s her fault. The only person I’ve ever seen convince him to eat dessert is Horatio. I mean, there’s kinda a reason I wasn’t overly upset at what all went down. They’ve loved each other since basically first year, as far as I can tell, they’re just too stupid to deal with their emotions. But I’m getting ahead of myself, he basically lived in a tortured fashion hell until he went away to college. And then his dad mysteriously died; was murdered apparently; and his twin brother married his mother.”

“Oh. Oh, god.” Fortinbras looked pale. “That’s fucking disgusting. No wonder he’s a little insane.”

“Yeah, I can’t say I’d be the most stable person if my parent died mysteriously and I had to deal with all of that.” Ophelia knew because she hadn’t be stable at all. The only real difference was she was a wreck in middle and high school and he was a wreck in college. “I don’t know, I know I shouldn’t have let him get away with a lot of the shit he did, but I empathized with him really hard.”

“Yeah,” Fortinbras leaned into her shoulder. “You know you can do both right? Like, empathy is all well and good, but when he starts hurting people because he can’t get his shit together, maybe it’s time to try something different. I’d be willing to give him a chance if he treated other people half as well as he treats Horatio. Also, I’d appreciate it if he didn’t always cower before me, but what can I do?”

“Eh, he might always cower. But he kinda deserves it most of the time.”

“He can have my kindness when he’s earned it.” Ophelia saw a thought flutter through Fortinbras’ head and she couldn’t quite tell if she wanted to say it aloud or not. “I wonder if Hamlet would have any input on your ghost problem. Maybe he could help? I don’t know.”

“There’s no way in hell he ever wants to see me again,” Ophelia sighed. “I think I royally fucked up.”

“Yeah, I can’t even tell if he’s more afraid of me or you,” Fortinbras laughed hollowly.

“Definitely me,” Ophelia grimaced. “Maybe we could ask Horatio to be a go between?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Fortinbras broke eye contact and shifted uncomfortably. “He seems super stressed out by this stuff and we don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions.” She sighed. “I’ll try talking to Hamlet once he comes back from his weird little rendezvous. I mean, hopefully it’s cleared up by then, but you know…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ophelia said, trying to find strength in her voice. “It’s worth a shot.” There was a knock on her door. “My dad and brother,” she explained.

As soon as they entered the room, Laertes and Fortinbras were having a silent conversation that no one else could understand. Ophelia really didn’t even know where to start. The air around them turned dark, thin, and almost grief stricken. She didn’t understand. Whatever it was, they apparently agreed to keep it to themselves.

“Dad, Lae,” she said happily. “This is Fortinbras. My girlfriend.” Polonius scowled and hung his head. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I lost a bet to your Abuela. She said you two would have it figured out by the end of the week and I said the end of the month,” he explained bashfully. That was so not a surprise.

Laertes moved Babadook off the bed and smothered his sister in a tight hug. Even as kids, he had never been the touchy-feely one. That was definitely more of Ophelia’s department, so something was wrong; profoundly wrong in a way she still didn’t understand.

“Uh...I don’t want to intrude on private matters,” Fortinbras said awkwardly. “Text me when you’re done?”

“I will,” Ophelia smiled. She would have liked to kiss her, but that was something her dad didn’t need to see. Not yet, at least.

Once she left, the grief and tiredness settled over the room, especially in her father’s face. “You’re positive it was your mother?” He asked, everything about his body language indicated that he desperately hoped the answer was no.

“Yes,” she and Lae said at the same time. Polonius pulled up a chair and buried his face in his hands before regaining some semblance of composure. 

“Has someone looked at your...wound?” he asked. He looked like he might be sick.

“Osric put some stuff on it. It hasn’t been hurting so...I just kinda left it,”Ophelia explained. Laertes still had not let go of her shoulders. She could feel from the unsteadiness of his breathing that he was inches away from dissolving into tears.

“Dad, I miss her so much. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I dragged all of--”

“No more apologies, Lamb.” Her dad pulled both of his kids into a hug.

“Why didn’t you come with us?” Ophelia asked. It had been the one question on her mind since she was nine years old.

“We didn’t know. We didn’t know if the tip was true or if it was safer for her in Mexico or here. The only thing we knew for certain was if we were far away from you, they couldn’t hurt you. It was the only thing that mattered, Lamb.” Polonius wiped his own eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father to you in the fallout. I thought the distance would soften my grief, but it didn’t. I thought I would never be whole again.”

“Dad, it’s okay. You did your best.” Ophelia didn’t want to cry anymore, but she felt it being wrought from her chest like a healthy, fresh spring. “What do we do now?”

“Remember her with joy.” Polonius’ voice cracked on the final word. There was a long half-silence punctuated with soft sobs.

“Do you remember the time you push Bobby Mahler off the roof of the jungle gym because he made fun of my name?” Laertes asked into Ophelia’s shoulder.

“Mom was so proud.” She knew it was supposed to help.

“We had to pretend to scold you in front of the vice principle,” Polonius sighed. “But your mom kept smiling and laughing.”

Ophelia, Laertes, and their dad talked and held each other until Polonius was called away towards the Met. Finally, the family that could never grieve together got their chance.

* * *

The pounding had stopped. The linoleum was hard and frigid, sapping almost, and the room was plunged completely into darkness.

Ariche sat up and pulled a hand over her face, squirming in discomfort as the features that greeted her revealed themselves as distinctly forgein. A broader nose, thinner lips, a more prominent forehead. The hair was a patchwork piece that couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to be curly or wired. As she ran her hands through it, she became distinctly aware of something, or rather someone, else waking up with her.

Horatio pulled his fingers out of his hair to clutch at his screaming shoulder. He grimaced as he worked his fingers deep into the socket but, thankfully, there seemed to be nothing displaced. Bracing himself against Rosencratz’s bed frame, Horatio clambered back to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his alarm clock and paled.

“6AM?” He wondered aloud. “No way.” He checked his phone just to be sure. 6AM. It had been 8AM when he arrived back at the dorm. “I slept an entire day.” Not only that, he’d overslept his rehearsal at one, classes at four, and work at eight. Horatio  never  overslept. Even when he was so sick he could barely see straight, he was always prompt to his classes and commitments. Especially rehearsals, which actually relied on his presence.

Horatio scooped up his displaced messenger bag and sat heavily on the bed as his knees failed him. Laptop. Apology emails were his main concern, then he’d figure out what caused him to...apparently faint? Then of course there was Laertes to worry about-

And Ariche was back in control again. She frowned and set aside the thin computer, focusing her attention inward. She was sure at this point that the body she was in was not her own nor anything resembling her own. Yet that raised more questions than answers.

“Hello.” Ariche tested her voice out. It came back low and lilted, strung through with a thin New York City accent. “Hello,” she tried again, “uh, I don’t know entirely...where I am.”

She rubbed the knuckles of her hand nervously. Lae and that other woman had called her Horatio during the course of their respective arguments. It was worth a shot. “Horatio?” She asked.

Horatio blinked at his empty hands. The laptop was now sitting beside him on the bed where only seconds ago it had been in his lap. A cool feeling of dread settled in his stomach.

_“Please be a concussion.”_ Horatio muttered. _“Or dementia.”_

Ariche sighed. The computer had been shifted again, indicating that Horatio or whoever the man was had moved it. However, as far as she could tell, he hadn’t heard her. Naturally. The world could never just be kind to her, could it? Ariche pressed her hand to the crucifix around her neck, twirling it around one finger. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t talk to the other soul in her body but surely he knew she was here? He had held onto the necklace, after all.

She cast her blurry memory back to the night she was...revived? Re-awoken? Whatever. The night she quite nearly frozen Ophelia while shaking loose the holds of her own untimely demise. Freeing herself of stringy guilt, Ariche focused on the man who’d been with her, who had channeled her through the board. He’d heard her then. If she could just force them back onto common ground...

Ariche took a breath and fumbled around for the entrance she’d made her way through the first time, the one inside the man. As soon as she found it, she pictured it, a door, closed and padlocked.

The crucifix around her neck went cold and heavy as dead weight and suddenly, she felt more grounded in the body. “Horatio?” She tried again in that voice that wasn’t hers. “I need you to speak to me if you can.”

There was no response and Ariche worried that she’d accidentally locked the man  out before something hot as a soldering iron twisted in her gut. Ariche bent double on the bed, wrapping her arms tight as her innards attempted to flip inside out and burst out her throat. “With words.” She hissed. “If you please.”

_“Get out my body!”_ A boy’s voice cried loud enough that Ariche had to clamp her hands over her ears.

“Are you Horatio?” Ariche urged.

_“Get the fuck out of my body!”_ Horatio repeated forcefully. The sound reverberated around her skull as vile, violent fear coursed through her system. His system. She pushed the other soul inside the body back and down as if drowning him beneath the sea.

“Calm down.” She said smoothly.

_“Let me go! What do you want?”_

“To know what’s going on.” Ariche replied. She had no earthly idea how to settle Horatio. She awkwardly reached up and petted her own hair like a mother soothing a frightened child.

_“Don’t touch me.”_ Horatio spat, fear flooding to cold anger. _ “I’m in control here!” _

“Yeah?” Ariche said with honest curiosity. “Then you’re the one who brought me out of the crucifix?”

_“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to summon Hamlet’s dad and you just happened. Go back to where you came from! Leave me alone!”_

“Trust me, I’d love to.” Ariche said coolly. “Didn’t exactly ask to be here, kid.”

_“And I didn’t ask for you to be in that cross!”_ Horatio yelled.

“Then we’re at an impasse.” Another slam into her lower gut and this time Ariche’s hands shook. She caught the left one as it moved involuntarily to claw at her throat and shoved Horatio’s soul back under. “No. No way I’m letting you be in charge here.”

_“It’s my body!” _ Horatio’s ghostly voice echoed with desperation. _ “I am in charge!” _

“Not right now, you’re not. Not until I get my answers.”

_“You’re a demon.”_

“Not that I’m aware of.” Ariche stood and started to pace, hands gripped tight behind her back.

_“You are. Ghosts can’t possess people.”_

Ariche scoffed. “Ghosts don’t have rules. They’re ghosts.”

_“You sound like Ophelia.”_ Horatio grumbled. Ariche hadn’t even realized how inflamed her body was until Horatio relaxed minutely, allowing her room to properly breath. She let her hands fall, though she kept them tight against her sides.

“I do?” Ariche asked eagerly. “You’re friends with my daughter?”

_“Yes.”_ There was admiration and respect. Love and protectiveness. Grief. A small measure of fear, which Ariche grinned at. Ophelia: scaring men as a young woman just as effectively as she had as a child.

“Tell me about her.” Ariche commanded. “And Laertes. I want to know absolutely everything.”

_“And I want to be able to move my toes but we can’t always get what we want, now can we?” _ Horatio shot back nastily. A curl of defiance followed in his wake. 

“Don’t be an ass.” Ariche rolled her eyes.

_ “You’re inhabiting my body.” _

“Nicely. I’m nicely inhabiting your body.” Ariche corrected. She paused. “Who’s Hamlet?”

_ “What?” _

“You said you were trying to talk to Hamlet’s dad when you…” She debated word choice, “found me. So who’s Hamlet and why were you trying to find his dad’s ghost?”

She put real focus into interpreting the rush of fresh and festered emotions this time, though the influx was so powerful it nearly knocked her flat. “Oh.” She said softly, once her mind had recovered enough to speak. “You love him.”

_ “Of course I do. He’s my...best friend.”  _ Horatio said.

She shook her head. This kid was almost as bad as Polonius had been and that was saying something. “So you talk to ghosts often then?” She moved onto topics more fruitful than a college student’s love life.

_“Too often.”_ Horatio said mournfully.  _ “I thought I might be getting good at it too and then this happens. Why is this happening?” _

Ariche crossed her hands back behind her back and debated her next thoughts carefully. “Do you know how to...I don’t know. Put spirits back where they came from? Send them to heaven or whatever?”

_ “That didn’t come in the instruction guide.” _

“There’s an instruction guide?” Ariche asked, startled.

_“Of course there’s not an instruction guide!”_ Horatio snapped with the full force of his restless irritation.

Ariche stopped short. She crossed over to the mirror, taking full inventory of the young face that peered back at her through the smudge. “You just said ghosts have rules.” She said as she widened his vibrant green eyes and played with making crooked smiles.

“_We’re both Catholic, I don’t know, let’s find an exorcist._”  Horatio was rapidly losing whatever patience he had and, in return, Ariche could feel her meager control slipping. She wrestled it back impatiently though she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever. The kid was strong-willed and scared out of his mind. A dangerous combination if there ever was one.

“Listen.” Ariche said with all the authority of a former insurgent. “You figure out how to send me home, you’ll get your body back. Simple as that.”

_“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that while I’m trapped inside my own mind?”_ Horatio’s manufactured courage was a poor coverup act but at least he was still responding.

Ariche shrugged overly broad shoulders. “I’ll, um. We’ll go do research. Talk to some people. Figure out how to send me away.”

_“I’ve done the research and I still can’t help you. Besides, you are not leaving my dorm.”_ Horatio’s voice was sharper than splintered glass.  “_Your kids will find us and Fortinbras will kill me. Or, worse, you’ll hurt Ophelia again.”_

“Who’s Fortinbras?” Ariche said, purposefully ignoring the last sentence. She opened Horatio’s closet.

_“If you remove my pants, I’ll take us both out.”_ Horatio said. Her throat tightened against her will as if in warning.

“Just finding you a new shirt.” Ariche rubbed the tightness from her neck. She pushed past the bland assortment of v-necks and t-shirts until she found, buried in the very back, a colorful striped button down. “Fortinbras?”

“_Ophelia’s friend._”  Horatio said anxiously as Ariche pulled off his sleep-mussed t-shirt.  “_The one I threatened._”

“Lovely.” Ariche grimaced. She studied her appearance in the mirror again. Yup, that was certainly a young man looking back at her. She decided not to look at her reflection anymore. As long as she was, this body was hers and hers alone.

“Where’s the library?” She asked stiffly.

_“I have class.”_

“Is there a chance this Fortinbras will find you if you go to class?” Ariche prompted.

Silence.  _ “I’ll direct you to the library.” _

“Thank you.” Ariche smiled.

Horatio laughed bitterly.  _ “Not like I have a choice, right?” _

“That’s right.” Ariche confirmed in spite of the tug of guilt deep in her gut. “You have no choice.”

* * *

Time bled together. He was awake when it was dark, he was awake when it was light. He could catch minutes of sleep while lying awake either on the small cot provided to him in the house or while lying awake on the beach. He no longer felt tired. He no longer felt anything half the time, and the other half was a nightmarish mix of every emotion he’d ever felt.

Four days. He kept tally on a large rock, scraping marks into it with each new sunrise. Four days since he’d been there, four days since Yorick had last given him any truly useful information. He was meditating, or maybe communing. Both. All he’d been told was that while Yorick was doing so he wasn’t allowed to leave the island. He was legitimately a horror to behold at this point; hair salt-drenched and eyes sunken from lack of sleep and food. He was subsisting nearly entirely on tea and whatever vegetables he could steal before they went into the high-sodium, high-calorie stew. Oh, and he was allowed to eat fish, provided he could catch them. Which he could not.

Early on in the hours of the fifth day Yorick disturbed Hamlet’s customary 15-minute sleep cycle, startling him out of his light rest with a touch to the shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Hamlet cried, sitting bolt-upright, chest heaving with fear.

“Easy,” Yorick said quietly. “Come, we need to talk.”

“About what?” Hamlet said as he stood, shaky on his feet. Yorick reached out a hand and caught his elbow before he could trip and kill himself on the rock he had been laying on.

“Your father,” Yorick said grimly. “I believe he is ready for us to speak with him.”

Dread sank in Hamlet’s stomach, starving the hunger right out of him. He didn’t even complain as Yorick kept his grip on his elbow as they walked back up to the house. “I don’t think I’m ready,” Hamlet mumbled.

“We don’t get to be ready,” Yorick said gently. “We must follow their schedule.”

“No,” Hamlet shook his head as Yorick sat him down at the small table. He was tired and he felt sick. He didn’t want to talk to ghosts anymore; not without Horatio. “I don’t want to.”

“Why? Because he hurt you once?” Yorick raised a gray brow. “It was an accident.”

“I can’t,” Hamlet said, breath running short. “I can’t do a seance right now.”

“Sweet prince, seances are for amateurs,” Yorick said softly.

“Then what are we doing?” Hamlet asked, desperately trying to focus on anything other than the tingling numbness in his fingers; the early warning signs of a panic attack.

“You are going to place your hands on mine, with this candle between us,” Yorick gestured to the candle. “ You  will focus on the candle and keep your pretty head very clear. I will invite your father’s soul to join us.”

“I can’t,” Hamlet said with a sharp breath. “I can’t keep my head clear.”

“Why not?” Yorick asked patiently. “Was it not clear while you were sorting all the shells?”

“I was allowed to think then,” Hamlet protested over his body’s desire to hyperventilate. “I just...happened not to be thinking about anything other than the shells.”

“Then ‘just happen’ not to think about anything other than the candle,” Yorick said, as if that were an easy task.

“I can’t,” Hamlet said, frustrated tears singing his salt-chafed cheeks. “I can’t.”

“Shh,” Yorick hummed. “Think about the last time you were calm and picture that.”

Hamlet forced himself to take a few even breaths. He thought about the half-hour he spent sleeping with Horatio the morning before his flight. He remembered the firm curves of his arms as he held him; the solidity of his grip. His shirt, even if it was cheap, had been soft. His skin was warm and clean and smelled like his expensive body wash even though his clothes smelled like his usual detergent. Despite himself, Hamlet felt a little calmer.

“Okay,” Hamlet said weakly. “Okay, I feel a little better.”

“Good,” Yorick smiled. “Let us begin, then.”

Hamlet squirmed slightly but took his hands, keeping the candle between them. It flickered slightly as they moved.

“Spirits that are here, and you are many,” Yorick started, speaking as he would in a normal conversation. “I am inviting only one of you to the table this evening. Letta Kierkegaard, son of Hans Kierkegaard, please take the seat provided to you by your son who shares your name, Hamlet Kierkegaard.”

There was a chill that settled beside Hamlet, and he felt something cool rest on the back of his right hand. His breath caught sharply, but he kept his eyes closed and pictured the candle flame, counting his breaths as he had the shells. Hamlet flinched as he heard Yorick take a very harsh breath in, and felt his grip on his hands stiffen.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Yorick said in a voice that was not Yorick’s. Hamlet had to force his eyes to stay closed. There was another breath. “Letta Kierkegaard, you were murdered on the afternoon of August the fifteenth, in the year two-thousand and fourteen. You were forty-nine years old, and your son was twenty-one years, one day and thirteen hours old.” Yorick said in his own voice.

“That’s right,” his father’s voice said again. Hamlet bounced his knee and chewed the inside of his cheek, counting his breaths and picturing the shells and the beach in his head.

“Am I speaking to Letta’s soul, or to his body?” Yorick asked. Hamlet shivered as the room turned cold. “Know that this land is sacrosanct, blessed by the word of Father Amadeus Yorick on Sunday, the seventh of April in the year of our lord sixteen-hundred and thirty-five. Your body cannot walk these holy shores, nor can it manifest.”

Hamlet’s breath hitched as he felt tension move in the air, and he was distinctly aware that his hands were trembling. The cold on his hand lingered, but it did not grow harsh.

“You are speaking to me alone,” his father’s voice finally said.

“And where is your body?” Yorick asked calmly, evidently not perturbed by the shifting airs and prickling tension in the atmosphere of the room.

“Paris,” his father said stiffly. Hamlet could swear he felt the cold grip his hand.

“Where was is last manifest?” Yorick asked.

“New York,” his father said morosely.

“And you know what you are?” Yorick asked carefully.

“No.”

“And you know that I will not tell you?” Yorick said cautiously. Hamlet felt a wave of another’s dread wash over him. He wondered, briefly, if that was what Horatio felt.

“You’ll tell Hamlet,” his father said, more of a statement than a question.

“I will,” Yorick reassured.

“And you will tell him how to destroy it,” his father said calmly.

“No!” Hamlet shrieked, eyes flashing open. The candle flittered out. Hamlet felt something tear through his chest and in an instant the chill on his had was gone. For a moment he saw his father, and then he was gone. And it hurt. “Dad!” Hamlet screamed, standing and looking at the empty seat at the table. “Where did you go?” He wailed, stumbling to the window. “You can’t leave,” he sobbed, throwing open the door to the house and blundering into the yard, heading down to the shore. “You can’t go,” he cried, jogging blindly in the dewy light of dawn down to the ocean as if to catch the chilled breeze of the autumn morning.

“Hamlet!” Yorick yelled far behind him. Hamlet shed off his sweater, leaving it in the sand along with his shoes.

“Dad, I’m not losing you again,” he keened into the waves, his sleep-deprived mind convincing him that any of the silver crests could be a flash of his father’s presence. He ran into their wake, half-blind and driven by grief. “Please, I don’t want to stay behind,” he called out into the crashing wake, wading up to his waist. “I am not happy,” he said through his tears. “I’m tired of trying to figure out how to live. I’m scared and there’s no hope of things getting better, and you’re gone,” he choked on a sob, wandering out further still until the water was up to his chest. “I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I feel sick all the time, and I sliced up my wrists and I wish I hadn’t listened to you that-”

“Hamlet!” Yorick shouted, and Hamlet was vaguely aware of splashing behind him. Soon there was a warm hand on his soaking shoulder.

“Please,” Hamlet pleaded, turning to face the blind man. “I can’t do it anymore.”

“I know,” Yorick said sympathetically, wiping the soaked hair back from his eyes. “But it is nobler to suffer through the uncertain blows of fate than it is to take your fight up against the absolute certainty of death.”

“What if this is my fate?” Hamlet wailed. “What if I’m not meant to live?”

“No one’s fate is to die unnaturally,” Yorick said, cupping his face in his weathered hands. “That is why there are so many who still haunt us.”

“But nothing ever works,” Hamlet cried. “No one ever loves you when you want them to, and there’s never any guarantee that anything we do is going to work out. If I live, I’m going to get old and ugly. If I die young it’ll be some awful disease. I want to go now,” he said, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I want it to be my choice.”

“And what then?” Yorick said calmly, swiping a tear from Hamlet’s cheek with his thumb. “What then, for those who love you? You think that existence ends at death?”

“Does it not?” Hamlet said between sharp breaths. Yorick actually laughed.

“Sweet prince, does your father no longer exist just because he’s gone? Do you not miss him, and think of him often?” Yorick said with a smile. Hamlet nodded. “Does his unnatural end not cause you pain?”

“It hurts,” Hamlet said quietly as fresh tears pricked his eyes. “I want to stop it.”

“What do you think you would do to your loved ones if you did the same?” Yorick said patiently. “Do you think it wouldn’t hurt them?”

“They’d be okay, without me” Hamlet sniffled. Yorick stroked his hair roughly, though it was meant to be comforting.

“One of your friends would not choose to live without you,” Yorick said seriously.

“I told you, I broke up with Ophelia and she’s-”

“He would not choose to live without you,” Yorick interjected. Hamlet’s brow furrowed. A knife of panic settled in his chest as he realized he meant Horatio.

“He wouldn’t do that. He has his plays, and his mom and his family,” Hamlet said earnestly; desperately. “He has so much to live for. His life is going to be good.”

“He was raised in the tenets of my old faith,” Yorick said slowly. “He fears hell, even if he knows it is not strictly as he’s been told. He wouldn’t let you go alone.”

“That’s insane,” Hamlet urged. “That’s completely insane.”

“To him it isn’t,” Yorick said patiently. Hamlet stood still, shell-shocked in the cold water. For the first time he realized it was cold, and that he was uncomfortable. He wanted to call Horatio. He needed to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to follow him to hell or whatever would happen to him if he died. He shivered as a larger wave lapped his neck.

“Are you cold?” Yorick asked gently.

“No,” Hamlet said defiantly, though his shivering body and clattering teeth said otherwise.

“Can we go up to the house and make some tea?” Yorick said with a smile, clouded eyes somehow looking past him and at him at the same time. He didn’t want to be warm, or to have tea. He wanted to sink under the tide and never feel anything again.

“Okay,” Hamlet said miserably. He could kill himself, but not Horatio. He let himself be guided back up to the house, the early cringes of morning light painting the island pink and gold. It felt like it took hours to get back up the hill.

“It will take a few more days for me to prescribe you a plan,” Yorick said as he draped an old blanket over Hamlet’s shoulders. He started the tea.

“What do I do then?” Hamlet asked quietly, picking at his cracked and peeling cuticles.

“You will follow it,” Yorick explained. “And you will do so quickly.”

“Can I go home first?” Hamlet asked as Yorick handed him the tea. It had honey, cinnamon, and milk, all in the right proportions.

“You may,” Yorick nodded. “But I recommend you move before winter sets in.”

“What happens in winter?” Hamlet asked as he sipped his tea.

“The nights get longer,” Yorick said grimly. “And the cold will get stronger.”


	26. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia goes to a museum. Horatio fights his inner demons. Hamlet calls get his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Happy finals to all our fellow college/grad/high school people on the semester system. It sucks! Anyways, as always we love to hear from you! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Conversations about suicide/death/self-harm, descriptions of weight loss, insomnia

It had been days and Ophelia still couldn’t shake the conversation with Laertes and Fortinbras. Really, it had been less of a conversation and more of small scale intervention. Because Ophelia  _ knew _ . She had known that Horatio had the crucifix. It was the only logical conclusion after hours of searching, but Horatio couldn’t lie.

If she had half her mind, she would have stormed straight over to his apartment to get it back. Through her tears and seething rage, Laertes convinced her to let it rest for a few days and let Horatio burn in the fountain of his own guilt. He rationalized that perhaps the weight of his sins would prompt him to just give it back, but Fortinbras disagreed.

Ophelia decided tomorrow was her deadline. She would come back with that crucifix or die trying. She shook her head and tried to focus on braiding her hair. She wasn’t supposed to be angry all the time. If she was angry, then he won and he didn’t get to win.

Today Ophelia had a date. A real live date with a real live girl. She tucked a rogue curl behind her ear and twirled in front of the mirror. Her knee-length dress was teal with little sparrows on it. In short, it was the perfect casual dress for a museum date and she had designed it herself. She tucked a sprig of baby’s breath into her braid and declared herself ready to go.

Within minutes, Fortinbras knocked on her door. “Hey, you look really nice,” she said with a nervous smile. “I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to, you know, wear to the Met, so I kinda dressed it up, if that’s okay.”

It took a full five seconds before Ophelia could even process what she said. Fortinbras was wearing a burgundy suit with a white shirt, bowtie, and  suspenders . A goofy smile spread across her face. It was all she could do to stop herself from kissing her right then and there. “I think you look lovely.” Fortinbras smiled and Ophelia’s heart soared. It had been far too long since she heard her laugh, but today, that was going to change. “You might want to lose the jacket though. The museum can get kinda hot.”

Fortinbras folded it across the chair and rolled up her sleeves showing off the subtle musculature of her arms. Ophelia could not tell if she was doing it on purpose or not. “Yeah,” she said as she gave Ophelia a small kiss on the cheek. “It was pretty warm just walking over here. But I saw the cutest cat, so it was okay.”

Ophelia blushed. She had never thought she was a blushy person, but Fortinbras brought it out of her. “You’ll have to tell me all about it on the way there.”

Fortinbras held the door open and they both walked arm in arm to the museum. Usually Ophelia hated the city with a burning passion. The gross streets were filled with gross people and gross animals, so her revulsion typically sat heavy in her throat. Fortinbras made a point to call attention to every little wonderful thing that was happening around them.

Two sisters were playing soccer in the space between buildings. Mottled pidgeons nested together on the top of a telephone pole. A florist was selling camellias on the street corner. It seemed like to Fortinbras every single mundane thing came together to form a mosaic of joy. Ophelia made a mental note of where the flowers were and they entered the museum.

Fortinbras made a beeline for the Egyptology exhibit and Ophelia followed closely. “This was so my jam when I was little,” she whispered, careful not to disturb the other patrons. “I mummified a chicken in grade school. We buried it in a flowerbed. I wonder what would happen if we dug it up.”

“Probably release the ghost of the chicken. She’ll seek vengeance for ages to come.” Ophelia’s heart twinged at the thought of ghosts, but she chased the feeling away. “In all seriousness, how good of a job did you do? Theoretically, there could be a dehydrated chicken still just laying there.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know, man,” Fortinbras hummed. “We were like, five. I don’t know if our technique was as refined as it could have been.”

“We should go look anyway. It’d be a fun field trip.” Ophelia smile as she walked past an old, stone sarcophagus. She wanted to trail her fingers along the ridges and divets, but that was very, very against the rules. “Did you make her a sarcophagus?” She asked.

Fortinbras straightened her shoulders and beamed with pride. “The best sarcophagus a five year old’s money can buy, my man. So, like, a shoebox decorated with magic marker.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Ophelia giggled.

“We gave Henrietta a dignified funeral,” Fortinbras said in a mock show of solemnity. “Her ancestors would be proud.”

Ophelia smiled and pulled Fortinbras towards the glass display case filled with scarab beetles. They ranged from sandstone pieces the size of her thumb, to tiny, carnelian gems that could sit on her tip of my pinky finger. She had always wanted to learn how to make them. Somewhere in the back of her head, she supposed it could be as simple as putting a knife to clay until it looked vaguely correct. What she needed was time and energy.

“I think I remember what those things are,” Fortinbras mused. “They’re, like, symbols of protection and resurrection or something.”

That something twinged behind Ophelia’s heart. “I used to want to make jewelry out of them.”

“You could still do that,” Fortinbras said, smiling. Always smiling. “Like, embroidery and stuff, too. I think there’s a play down the street that sells shiny, green thread. Oh!” Her eyes flashed. “You could make a dress with the beetle wing covers. Isn’t that a thing people used to do?”

“Yeah! It is!” Ophelia beamed. Fortinbras had no idea how close she was to getting a beetle wing dress for Imogen. “Since when do you know stuff about...textiles?”

“Since I started trying to date you,” Fortinbras rubbed the back of her neck and blushed. “I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to be impressive.”

“You’re very impressive,” Ophelia said without thinking, but what was the harm? They were dating now, like, actually dating. They were on a date. “Maybe I can impress you with my knowledge of rugby next.”

“I’m sure you will.” Fortinbras smiled as she looked around the room for a moment before kissing her gently. She was clearly trying to aim for Ophelia’s cheek, but missed and got the shell of her ear instead. “I’m so sorry,” Fortinbras blushed the prettiest shade of pink.

“No, no, don’t be,” Ophelia said, a little louder than she meant. “You’re very sweet and I like you a lot.” Smooth, girl. Smooth.

Fortinbras laughed like summer bells and Ophelia could feel the warmth of both embarrassment and affection settle in her chest like the sun in August. “I like you a lot, too.” Fortinbras said as she linked arms with Ophelia. “Now, I want you to show me this beetle dress. I think my knowledge is lacking.”

And so they walked together, arm in arm, and Ophelia basked in the warmth and comfort of Fortinbras’ presence. They could have stayed in that museum for days and lost themselves to the perfectly preserved relics of the beautiful past, but they had to go home eventually. For now, Ophelia was content to listen to Fortinbras ramble about some painting or another while she tried desperately to forget about what she needed to do tomorrow.

* * *

It was tempting to call their current situation a stalemate but Horatio knew it was really more of a standoff. While Ariche held him under her control, giving him just enough room to be without being, Horatio pressed a blade to her throat, threatening certain destruction for any false step. From his weird disconnected position, he’d discovered it was surprisingly easy to pull fun tricks like shutting down his own lungs or squeezing the arteries surrounding his heart so hard the organ skipped a beat. Even the dead, apparently, feared death. And why wouldn’t they? Horatio knew that Ariche had pulled her spirit into him entirely and, as unpleasant as haunting a cross may be, haunting a decomposing corpse seemed an even worse fate. Still, Horatio didn’t act unprompted. He wouldn’t shut down so long as she didn’t drown him first.

So they remained at their impasse.

“The answer is Lorraine Hansberry.” Horatio instructed.

Ariche’s sigh was odd and thick, strung through the layer of muck which separated Horatio from his own body. Ariche’s sigh. He should say  _his_ sigh. His sigh made with his voice that Ariche had stolen from him.

_“I don’t understand why I’m doing your homework.”_ Ariche said for the fifth time in the last hour. She sounded twitchy.

“Because I need to keep up my grades.” Horatio said. “I have a 4.0 and no ghostly bullshit is going to take that away from me. The answer is Lorraine Hansberry, ‘A Raisin in the Sun.’ Write it down.”

Ariche did.  _ “You do realize that the longer you distract me, the longer I’m going to have to stay in your body, correct?” _

Horatio didn’t bother to answer her. Five days of research had yielded exactly nothing in terms of figuring out a clear and safe way to send Ariche away. Just as Horatio had predicted. For the time being, he could only bide his time, building up enough strength to overpower Ariche and take back control. He was sure he could push her back into the crucifix if he could just catch her off guard.

_“Done.” _ Ariche said, setting his homework aside. She stood, stretching out his stiffened joints and inelegantly shoving paperwork into his bag.

“Great.” Horatio said with mocking cheerfulness. “Now call Hamlet again.”

Ariche bristled and Horatio felt himself being pushed farther down in response, his mind turning fuzzy at the edges and loose sensation fading from his fingertips. He shoved back against her hold, causing her breath to hitch as he reinforced his ability to cut off her breathing.

“Now.” He said when her breathing evened out again.

Ariche stood still, hands still clasped tight around his bag handle.  _ “You called him less than half an hour ago.” _ She finally said.

Horatio smiled ruefully at the tone of defeat in her voice. “Now.”

_“He’s not going to pick up.”_ Ariche dug the phone out of his jeans and pulled up Hamlet’s contact.

“Doesn’t matter.” Horatio allowed him to take a metaphorical step back as Ariche held the phone to her ear. The misted dial tone seemed to flow through him, echoing into the empty space that made up his current existence. He clutched a small burst of hope tightly as the phone rang a second time. Then it fell straight into Osric’s automated message and the hope shriveled.

“Hang up.” He commanded sharply as the tone beeped.

_“Do you want me to leave a message?”_ Ariche asked, almost gently.

“No. He’ll know it’s not me when he listens to it.” Horatio snapped. He hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether it would be better to let the full wrath of his worry and fear explode or to sink back into unawareness until it lessened again. Rationally, he knew Hamlet was busy, attempting to juggle home responsibilities while also dealing with the medium in the Mediterranean. Realistically, however, Hamlet was squatting on the isolated compound of some potential lunatic, attempting to contact the ghost of his dead father while also battling near to constant suicidal ideation. And Horatio hadn’t heard from him in five days. Five. Days. The only logical conclusion was that Hamlet was dead or dying on some godforsaken rock.

Ariche cried out and Horatio found the decision made for him as he was pushed below.

Sounds muffled to incomprehensible mumbling as his soul became weightless. His sight failed so that he seemed to be peering through brackish water. And Horatio’s mind scattered out and away with the tide.

By the time he resurfaced, Ariche had moved them to the library. She paused in her reading, no doubt in response to his reappearance.

_“Are you going to make me puke again?”_ She whispered poisonously.

“Yup.” Horatio shot back with half hearted intent. Left once more in a position of exhausted helplessness, Horatio tried to force his thoughts away from Hamlet and towards the book in front of Ariche but, for once, his single track mind failed him.

They sat in silence for a long time, Ariche reading about Mexican folklore, Horatio obsessively mapping out every single way Hamlet could be gutted with a kitchen knife. Through the gullet, across the stomach, up through the chin. Hamlet wouldn’t approve of any of those methods. They would ruin his dreams of dying spread out like a Lana Del Ray album cover.

Across the wrists.

_“Horatio.”_ Ariche broke into his thoughts suddenly.  _ “What do you think about this?” _

“What?” Horatio asked. He skimmed over the page with unfocused vision. “Doesn’t work. You don’t have a physical form.”

_“Yeah.”_ Ariche agreed sadly. She tapped her pencil against the corner of the table and surveyed the huge stack of books in front of her. Horatio must have been out of it for longer than he realized.

He attempted to tune out Ariche’s incessant fidgeting but was pulled back almost immediately as she asked,  _ “this one?” _

“Unless you’re planning on sticking around, no, the Day of the Dead does squat for you.”

Ariche’s irritation pressed back on him as a physical weight. Rather than letting it sit, however, she took a deep breath and released the emotion. Horatio raised a non-existent eyebrow as the iron hold she had on his soul relaxed minutely.

_“Do you want me to call Hamlet again?”_ She asked.

Horatio blinked in surprise. “Uh...no.” He said cautiously. “I need to wait another half hour.”

_“Okay.”_ Ariche closed the book and sat back.  _ “Do you want to...I don’t know. Talk about what’s bothering you?” _

“With the ghost possessing me?” Horatio challenged harshly, immediately back on guard.

_“Well...why not?”_ Ariche sounded more like she was speaking out of obligation than an actual desire to communicate with him. Plus, she was doing that weird thing again, stroking his hair like a mother quieting a child. He wished he was able to recoil.

“You’re a monster.” Horatio said.  And the second I’m able, I’m going to fling you back into that crucifix and do what I should have to begin with. Lock you in a box and throw you off the ferry, he added silently.

_“I’m just trying to protect my children.”_ Ariche growled back at him.

“As am I.”

_ “Then why aren’t we on the same side if we both want the same thing?” _

Horatio laughed incredulously. “Why do you think?”

_ “I needed to-” _

“You chose to.” Horatio hissed, pleased beyond belief when Ariche winced. Good. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to throw forward every single shred of frustration, fear, anger, and blinding helplessness he felt at once. “Give me my body back!”

_“No!”_ Ariche yelled. A series of nasty and confused looks from the students in the study room across the hall silenced her.  _“I can’t.”_ She said quietly. _“I can’t trust you not to do something we’ll both regret.”_ She needed the leverage too, Horatio knew. She was scared of him. She was scared.

Horatio considered for a brief second going through with shutting down his heart. There wasn’t any reason not to now since Hamlet was probably dead. Though, his phone may have broken or gotten lost or maybe he was just busy. And if Hamlet came back to New York to find Horatio gone, well. He couldn’t do that to him.

Ariche sighed again.  _ “Listen, I’m sorry your boyfriend isn’t picking up. It can be hard not to know what’s happening to someone you love. Believe me. I understand.” _

Horatio frowned. “I don’t love Hamlet.” He said firmly, only realizing once he’d said it that he’d unknowingly trapped himself into another conversation he didn’t want to have.

Ariche said nothing. She picked the book back up.  _“You know,”_ she said softly,  _ “love isn’t entirely warm, squishy feelings. It can be as hard and horrible as it is wonderful. What makes it love is the depth not the width.” _

Something seized within Horatio and he curled inwards to relieve the pressure. “If you loved Ophelia, you wouldn’t be doing this.” Horatio accused.

Ariche’s guilt was a welcome distraction from the uncertainty.

* * *

After his fling with the ocean, Hamlet stopped spending too much time at the beach. He spent exactly one whole day and night curled up on the cot in the house, alternating between icy numbness and absolute sobbing. Then Yorick kicked him out because his incoherent crying was ‘distracting.’ The next twenty-four hours were spent harassing the salamanders by the fresh water pool. He managed to catch three of them, though it may well have just been the same salamander the whole time. It reminded him of summer hikes with his father, which threw him into another half-day’s hysterics.

Midday on the third or fourth day since the encounter with his father, Yorick returned to him. Hamlet was naked, bathing in the little pool, and at that point was so fatigued that he no longer cared about being dressed. It wasn’t like frogs wore clothes. And Yorick was blind anyways.

“It’s time for you to go home,” Yorick said plainly. He offered him a towel.

“Why?” Hamlet asked, weakly climbing out of the pool and wrapping the towel around his waist. Somehow it felt like a betrayal to be told to leave.

“You’re sick,” Yorick said patiently, taking his arm as they started the walk back down to his cottage. “You will suffer lasting health consequences if you stay here longer.”

“But what about my dad?” Hamlet asked, gripping Yorick’s arm tightly in an effort not to collapse as he walked down the steep hill. “You said you needed to make a plan.”

“I have the plan,” Yorick said. “And I will give it to you once you are dry and dressed.”

“Why can’t I know now?” Hamlet pushed. His patience was thin.

“Because you will get upset,” Yorick said slowly. “And I would like for you to be seated and comfortable before you panic.”

Hamlet felt the black bile of fear twist within him. Yorick was underestimating his capacity for panic. He could do it right here, right now, even without any knowledge of what was to come. “I’m calm.” Hamlet lied.

“No, sweet boy,” Yorick smiled. He patted his arm. “I know that you are within a breath of running straight back into the arms of the tide.”

“I am not,” Hamlet pouted.

“That’s a bit true,” Yorick laughed. “You’re afraid of what would happen to your friend.”

“What if he already thinks I’m dead?” Hamlet asked, aware that he was taking the bait.

“He does,” Yorick said. Hamlet tensed. “But he isn’t certain of it, so you don’t need to worry about him. For now.”

“How long do I have?” Hamlet asked earnestly.

“Well, with your current sleeping and eating habits I give you a month-” Yorick started.

“No, before he thinks I’m dead for real,” Hamlet interjected.

“I can’t tell from so far,” Yorick sighed. “But I believe it is time for you to leave here.”

“I’ll have to go back to France,” Hamlet sulked.

“You fear your mother’s opinion,” Yorick stated. “Because you are unkempt and nigh-skeletal after your week of fasting.”

“I’m not skeletal. I haven’t seen a mirror in...a week,” Hamlet countered. He knew from the feel of his cheeks that he’d dropped over ten pounds.

“She will be worried,” Yorick said soothingly, gently patting his arm again. “You will be able to evade her and clean yourself up if you take the flight from Italy that gets you to Paris in the afternoon.”

“But how will I get to Italy?” Hamlet asked miserably as they reached the house.

“You will go tonight. With the man who brings me food and supplies.” Yorick said as he seated him at the table.

“Then I just have to get a hotel?” Hamlet asked weakly as Yorick brought over a folder with sheets of paper.

“Yes,” Yorick said calmly. He gave him a smile. “You will be able to charge your phone and your computer. Let your lover know that you’re safe.”

Hamlet nodded, finally feeling a little better. “I can call him,” he repeated.

“Now, your plans,” Yorick said, immediately tearing the calm away. “Your father’s spirit and body are imperfectly divided,” he said easily. Hamlet squirmed in his seat. “You would have likely seen this in your research as a gjenganger or even a draugr.”

“He’s a zombie?!” Hamlet cried, breath hitching sharply.

“Hush,” Yorick waved him off. “He is a restless spirit. Body and mind and soul have lost their connection but haven’t been broken as cleanly as they must for eternal peace.”

“But what can I do?” Hamlet asked miserably. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t quite make tears anymore.

“There, there,” Yorick said with a smile. “I dealt with a case of this as recently as 1895-”

“1995,” Hamlet corrected.

“No, Hamlet. 1895,” Yorick sighed.

“No,  _ Yorick _ ,” Hamlet mocked. “That’s impossible.”

“It wasn’t as long ago as you might think,” Yorick said seriously. “I remember the Kierkegaard family. You were legitimate royalty until the early eighteenth century.”

“That was nearly three hundred years ago,” Hamlet blinked.

“Sweet little prince,” Yorick smiled. “I was born in the year 1578.”

“No you weren’t,” Hamlet scowled. “Stop messing with me.”

“I am bound to honesty,” Yorick said patiently. “I was a priest once, many hundreds of years ago. Old habits die hard.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hamlet shook his head.

“I made some arrangements with the higher powers, and a few of the lower ones,” Yorick shrugged. “It is easier for everyone if there remains at least a few true seers in the mortal world.”

“Yeah, that’s not real,” Hamlet huffed. “You’re old, but you’re not over four hundred years old.”

Yorick sighed. “Shall we get back to the plan?” He asked.

“Okay,” Hamlet nodded, suddenly feeling much less snarky.

“You must exhume-”

“Nope, absolutely not,” Hamlet said with a shock of complete terror, standing quickly. He saw stars as he did.

“Easy,” Yorick said gently, catching his hand and guiding him back to his seat. “It’s what must be done.”

“No,” Hamlet said, shaking his head. Evidently his eyes remembered how to make tears again, since he was crying. “I can’t.”

“You will,” Yorick said soothingly. “You may bring your friend with you. He will help.”

“Horatio won’t want to,” Hamlet said, wiping his eyes. “He hates ghosts.” Yorick gave him a sad yet understanding smile.

“Sometimes people do things they hate for people they care about,” he said gently. “Ask him. He may surprise you.”

Hamlet nodded, afraid to speak lest he start really crying again. Sobbing meant panicking, which meant a solid sixteen hours of recovery before he’d be able to function again.

“May I continue?” Yorick asked. Hamlet nodded. “You will need to get the body to wherever your father would have considered as a safe resting place, and cleanse the spirit.”

“How do I do that?” Hamlet asked, voice heavy with abject agony.

“Burn it. Holy salt.” Yorick shrugged. “I recommend bringing his spirit closure as well. Finding out who did it, what happened. That sort of thing. Not strictly necessary, though the best results always come from thorough methodology.”

“I can’t burn my father’s body!” Hamlet cried. “I don’t even want to look at it!”

“Bring your lover,” Yorick said patiently. “Hold his hand. Have him light the match and say the words. You need only be there as the connection to his soul.”

Hamlet sighed, but he nodded. “He can be with me the whole time?” He asked weakly.

“He can be with you every second,” Yorick smiled. “I have cleansed many a corpse in my time, and none have been my relatives.”

“Then why do I need to be there at all?” Hamlet protested.

“His spirit seems heavily attached to you,” Yorick said softly, as if speaking to a cornered animal. “The best way to guide him back to his body is for you to go there yourself.”

Hamlet chewed on his nails. An ancient, forbidden self-soothing practice, outlawed by his mother when he was ten. “So I need to go?” Yorick nodded. “But I can have Horatio with me. Right?”

“Yes,” Yorick said gently. “I believe he will go with you willingly,” he said with a slight smile. “Now, come down to the coast. I believe my assistant will be here with the groceries.”

“He’ll take me to Italy? Does he know that he’s taking me? How far is it?” Hamlet asked as he was pulled to his feet.

“He will take you,” Yorick said as they walked. “And the boat ride to the nearest coastal city is only an hour or so.”

“I can call Horatio in a couple hours?” Hamlet asked excitedly, barely feeling the exhaustion as his frail body lugged his heavy suitcase down the hill.

“Yes,” Yorick laughed. “You may call your boyfriend.”

“If you’re a priest, why are you okay with all this?” Hamlet asked, finally realizing the oddity of his entire week.

“I  was a priest,” Yorick corrected. “Nearly five hundred years ago. It becomes impossible to follow rules of morality when you can see true intent and feel the purity of ‘amoral’ thoughts.”

“Makes sense,” Hamlet nodded, too excited about calling Horatio to care that Yorick was still spouting his crap about being ancient.

Sure enough, there was a boat on the shore. A large middle-aged man stood beside it, and the thing was only large enough for two at best. A case of food and supplies lay on the sand, and the man didn’t so much as look at Yorick. He must have sensed his discomfort, for Yorick stopped him and whispered.

“He believes that I will curse him if we speak,” Yorick said with a smirk. “I am a witch to many of the locals, but I once saved his mother’s life so he is stuck with being my errand boy.”

Hamlet nodded. “He’ll take me to Italy?” He asked again.

“Yes,” Yorick said with a pat on his shoulder. “Try to rest on the ride. It isn’t long. You are welcome to come back someday. Bring your friend, if he chooses to practice the arts.”

Hamlet climbed into the small boat, happy when the significantly stronger and healthier man got his suitcase. He curled up in the bow of the motorboat as they started the short trip to the coast, looking back with an odd sadness as the island grew smaller. With a dose of utter fury he realized he’d forgotten to scratch the last few days into his rock. Perils of depression, he decided.

The man, who refused to speak to him, drove him into downtown and left him at the first relatively nice hotel. Hamlet got out, awkwardly hauling his now impossibly heavy suitcase into the lobby. A night guard stopped him, saying something stern in Italian until Hamlet shoved his first-rate credit card into his white-gloved hands. It seemed to shut him up, and got him to be very polite about helping him with his luggage.

By the time he reached his room, it was nearly midnight. That meant it was maybe six back home in New York. He plugged in his completely dead phone, letting it charge as he took one of the longest and most thorough showers of his life, complete with his most intensive moisturizing routine. He did it with the lights off, having terrified himself too badly when he accidentally looked in a mirror.

Three hours later he was curled up in his bed, looking at the offensively bright screen of his fully charged phone. He grimaced as he saw all the missed calls: Nearly fifty from Osric, and another...several hundred from Horatio. And one from Fortinbras, which he would absolutely not be returning. He wrote a reminder to himself to get Osric to call her back. He opened Horatio’s contact and hit ‘call.’

“Hamlet,” Horatio picked up, barely through the first ring.

“Hey,” Hamlet said, relief so intense that he felt like he might cry again. “I, uh. Saw that you called me. Every half hour for the entire week.”

“Yeah…” Horatio said. His voice was slightly odd, and Hamlet picked at his brittle nails. It sort of made sense that he’d be angry with him.

“I’m going to be home soon,” Hamlet offered, anxious to make things better. “I have to go back to Paris tomorrow, but I’ll book the first flight back.”

“That’s great,” Horatio said, once again not quite himself. Hamlet hugged his knees.

“I’m, uh, sorry,” Hamlet tried again. “I didn’t want to have to go this long without calling, but there was no signal and no outlets,” he reasoned. He rested his chin on his knee as he waited for a response.

“It’s fine,” Horatio said stiffly. Hamlet bit his lip. He never cared so much in his life about whether or not someone was mad at him as he did right now. He waited for Horatio to say more, but nothing came of the silence.

“I guess I’ll go,” Hamlet said weakly after nearly five minutes of quiet. He wanted to ask Horatio to stay on the line with him while he tried to sleep, but not if he was mad at him. “I’ll...I’ll call you tomorrow when I know what time I’ll get in.”

“Okay,” Horatio said after a moment. “Goodnight,” he said awkwardly. Hamlet hung up before he started crying. Immediately he dialed Osric.

“Hamlet!” Osric said firmly. “Where have you been? I’ve looked everywhere, I even tracked your-”

“Osric,” Hamlet sobbed. “Osric, I think Horatio is mad at me and I don’t think I can live with it,” he said between sharp breaths.

“Where are you right now?” Osric asked earnestly.

“I’m at a hotel somewhere in southern Italy,” Hamlet choked.

“Okay,” Osric said calmly. “I can arrange a flight out there and I’ll be there in four hours. Can you hold still and stay where you are that long? I’ll pinpoint your phone’s GPS and find your hotel in no time.”

“Can you stay on the phone?” Hamlet sniffled, curling onto his side under the blankets.

“Of course,” Osric said gently. “I’m switching over to the headset. Just stay still and I’ll be there in a few hours.”

Hamlet nodded to himself and closed his eyes, contemplating the new morality of suicide if Horatio was mad at him and was no longer tied to him by some weird Catholic pact. Unfortunately, the urge to cry outweighed the urge to get up and dig out his sleeping pills from his suitcase, so he just waited for Osric to come and make it better.


	27. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia confronts Horatio. Horatio isn't quite himself. Hamlet threatens matricide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the week off of updates; all of us had finals. As always, we love hearing your feedback!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Discussions of dead parents, prescription drug use, panic attacks, threats of violence/self-harm, abortion mention.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Ophelia whispered to herself. Laertes and Fortinbras were in a lounge down the hall despite their many protests. No, this had to be something she did by herself. She contemplated knocking on Horatio’s door for the third time in the past fifteen minutes. She had to do it.

Ophelia willed herself not to think as she knocked three times. The shadowed figure of Horatio peered around the door. A split second of fear and understanding flashed through his eyes before he threw himself into a hug. “Ophelia!” He gently ran his fingers through the back of her hair. Which was weird. This was weird. “I’ve missed you so much. Tell me everything that’s happened. Everything.”

“I...nothings happened. I saw you at rehearsal.” Ophelia tried to shake the strangeness away. He was there in rehearsal wearing her necklace which housed her mother. The mere thought of it steadied her resolve and kindling of wrath burning in her stomach. “May I please have my crucifix back?”

Horatio’s smile became crooked and pained in a way that seemed familiar yet completely alien spread across this face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ophelia sighed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Horatio. You’re wearing it right now. I can see it. Please just give it back. It’s important to me.” He reached towards her hair and she flicked his hand away. “Seriously. Laertes and Fotinbras told me everything. Let her go.”

“Since when do you call him that?” Horatio asked. “I’ve never once heard you call him  Laertes .”

“What? That doesn’t…” Ophelia took a deep breath. Her cool was rapidly disappearing under the layers of grief and confusion. “Don’t try to distract me. You’re not slick. The crucifix.” She held out her hand. “It’s my abuela’s. It’s mine.”

“I can’t let you do that.” Horatio’s voice broke as he grabbed the cross and backed away. “I’m going to hurt you again.” He shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “She’s going to hurt you again.”

“Of course it’s dangerous,” Ophelia snapped. “It’s dangerous for you and Hamlet too. We could have figured something out. If you had just asked me we could have figured it out together.”

“Ophelia…”

“Why do you think you get to play god with these things? What are you going to do once Hamlet figures out his dad?” Something broke in Ophelia’s chest. “She’s my mom, Horatio. She’s my  mom . And I never got to say goodbye.” Tears welled in her eyes and they weren’t Horatio’s fault. He knew, but he couldn’t have  known . She could calmly explain and then he would get it and give back the crucifix. “Horatio, Laertes and I had nothing, not even a funeral. Not even each other. Just...just let us say goodbye and we can figure out what to do.”

“Lamb, I can’t let you--”

“What?” Ophelia gasped. “No. No, you don’t get to call me that.” She angrily brushed the tears off her cheeks. “That’s not funny, Horatio.” A sob caught in her throat and made her rage sound pathetic. “You can’t let us what? Properly grieve the loss of our mother? Why do you get to make these decisions? She’s  my mom!”

“Do you think I wanted this?” Horatio yelled. His chest heaved and his eyes bulged like he ran a marathon. “She’s a demon and she’ll kill us all!”

“Horatio, stop it!” Ophelia shrieked and she heard Laertes and Fortinbras run to the door.

“Lamb, I’m not a demon. I don’t want to be possessing him. I just need to figure out how to go home.” Horatio stumbled forwards and barely caught himself. Laertes made a strangled noise in the background. “Lae, you believe me, don’t you, I tried…”

Laertes shook his head as tears poured down his cheeks. His fingers were curled into tight fists and Fortinbras held him back with a hand on her shoulder.

“She would have chosen to come back with me--”

“She chose  me ! She doesn’t want to be with you anymore!  I don’t want her anymore!” Horatio crumpled to his knees.

“Then give me the crucifix,” Ophelia begged, her voice a ragged mess. “Then she’s not your problem anymore. I’ve always dealt with it.”

“No!” He screeched. “This isn’t something you can do alone!”

“I would have asked you, but you lied to me and you lied to Fortinbras and you lied to Laertes. Are you lying to Hamlet too? Is this how your relationships are built? You sanctimonious bastard!” She tried to lunge forward, but Fortinbras’ other hand caught her wrist.

“Ophie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“And now you think this is funny?! Why? Horatio, explain to me why!” Ophelia didn’t realize how hard she was breathing until there was a stretch of silence. It was pulled taught like the strings of cat’s cradle and unseen hands twisted and pulled her breath into monstrous designs.

“Ophelia, I just didn’t want to hurt you.” Grief, real, tangible, and terrible, tore through his tear stricken voice. “I was so scared after that night and I didn’t know what to do. He’s telling the truth--”

“Stop!” Ophelia snapped. She had thought, really thought, that he was going to drop it and apologize. That was it. She needed as apology and the crucifix and she could leave and never have to deal with him again.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry. Ophie, Lamb, will you ever forgive me?”

“No!” Ophelia felt the strength of her wrath return to her. Fortibras let go of her wrist to comfort her distraught brother. “How dare you! How dare you mock the memory of my mother to  me ! I trusted you! I trusted you with everything!”

“Ophie--”

“And you want to know something else?” Ophelia stepped forward and caught his wrist so he couldn’t look away. His ragged breath was cold against her face. “You’re not bright, or clever, or whatever the hell you think you are. You’re the biggest fucking coward I’ve ever seen. And you’re not even a good actor!” She laughed, hollow and lifeless. “Because my mom loved me and she loved people so much. She fought and died so no one would be oppressed by fucking authoritarians. So, if you think for one second that she would have stood for any of this, then you’re out of your goddamned mind.” Ophelia pushed her hair out of her eyes. “She loved us. She loved us so much and you’re just a bitch who can’t even confront the emotion. You could never understand what she felt!” There was a moment of silence punctuated only by Laertes’ sobbing and Fortinbras’ whispered comfort. “Hurt me all you want,” Ophelia hissed, “But you don’t ever get to hurt him.”

Horatio raised a hand to her cheek and brushed away lingering tears with his thumb. Ophelia didn’t know why she didn’t push him away. He pet his fingers through her hair and she started to cry again.

“Lamb...” he whispered and Ophelia slapped him across his cheek before she fled from the room. She should have dragged Laertes and Fortinbras out with her, but her muscles worked on their own accord. She wondered for a moment if her legs would take her to some forest somewhere so she could let the frost devour her skin and sap the last tendrils of warmth from her blood. It had worked with Hamlet, hadn’t it? And then she would finally get to say goodbye and she wouldn’t have to worry about the fucking crucifix. She opened and closed her hands as she stumbled into the lounge.

She didn’t have it. Ophelia had come all this way and she didn’t even get the crucifix. She sat in an ugly college lounge chair and put her head between her knees. She couldn’t scream. Not here. She laughed. It wasn’t like it mattered. She probably woke up everyone within two floors of here and she could still hear yelling from down the hall.

It left only one option, though: weep and wait for Laertes and Fortinbras to come find her.

* * *

Ophelia fled and the grief crescendoed to a true pain. Laertes was still yelling something, loud and stricken, but Horatio couldn’t follow the words. The world outside was immaterial and half-formed and all Horatio could do was stare.

“_Lae, please you have to understand_.”  He heard himself say. Then,  “_I’m just trying to protect you_.”

“I didn’t want this. I’m sorry.” He added despite the fact that he couldn’t be certain the words broke through the barrier.

More screaming. If they kept this up, the neighbors would come running. Maybe they already had, maybe they were already surrounding him, pressing in on all sides. Horatio wanted to curl into the smallest ball possible, to sink down below the murk and gloom and lose himself entirely. Maybe if he just gave Ariche his body he could make this right. Ophelia and Laertes would have their mom back and Fortinbras wouldn’t be staring at him like that and he wouldn’t have to keep replaying the painful silence on the phone line and the smallness of Hamlet’s voice as he said ‘I guess I’ll go.’

“_Please believe me!_”  He and Ariche said with one voice.

Coward, bitch, he wasn’t clever, he wasn’t bright, he’d gone and ruined everything, everything, because he’d thought he could protect his friends but he was wrong. He was so wrong and now they were all hurt, not in spite of him, but because of him. Because of  him.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt!” Horatio said. He was aware that he was back on the floor now with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head tucked into his arms. Was that something he did when he was upset or was that Ariche? He didn’t remember anymore.

“How did you think this wasn’t going to hurt us! Hurt Ophelia!” Laertes shouted.

“ _I didn’t_- I did-  _I don’t know!_ I just wanted to keep her safe!” Something shifted and Horatio felt a renewed rush of clarity as he was pushed to the forefront of his mind. After five days of obstruction, the sensation of thick salt along his cheeks and the sharpness of voices was torturous. He burrowed his head further into his arms in an attempt to block it out.

When he didn't continue, Laertes went quiet. It would have been almost blissful, the lack of sound, if not for the clawing deep in his core, his and Ariche’s combined guilt set to mangle his innards. “Let me go.” Horatio whispered miserably. “I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t want this anymore.”

Ariche, amazingly, did not respond.

When the talking around him began again, it was soft and subdued. A hand landed on Horatio’s shoulder.

“Horatio?” Fortinbras asked uncertainly.

Horatio waited for Ariche to answer, for more crying and screaming and accusation. However, he was left with nothing but a thickness in his throat and silence so he nodded without looking up and was shocked to find his head followed the movement.

Fortinbras hesitated. “And Ariche.” She said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Horatio said. “She’s here.” Here as in inside. Here as in lingering below the surface, waiting for him to recover enough for her to take over again. His breath quickened against his will. “Please get her out.” He begged Fortinbras.

“Get her out?” Fortinbras said cautiously. Carefully. Horatio had just reduced her crush to a blubbering mess, after all.

Horatio whined deep in his throat. “Get her out.” He said. “She’s in me and I don’t know how to make it stop. I tried, I keep trying, I think I might be able to push her back into the cross but she’s too strong and I don’t-” A surge of fresh panic echoed as the guilt in his gut wound tighter.

Fortinbras’ hand left his shoulder and traveled to his neck. He felt her gently working the crucifix out from under his crossed arms but he caught her hands. “Please.” He said desperately. “If you take it, she’ll never leave.”

For the first time in the conversation, he met Fortinbras’ eyes directly. Her expression was an unholy mess of fierce protectiveness, anger, and vague discomfort, as if she knew she should be afraid but didn’t yet understand of what. She released the cross.

“You’re kidding.” Laertes hissed from somewhere above them. “You seriously believe him? He’s a liar and a thief!”

Fortinbras frowned, still not breaking eye contact. “Laertes…” she said slowly, “how long have you known Horatio?”

It seemed to take Laertes a few moments to collect himself and even then his voice was thickened with the remnants of tears and course with yelling. “Since freshman year. When he joined the fencing team.” He answered stiffly.

“Has he ever done anything like this before?” She asked.

Laertes was looking at him now but Horatio was becoming overwhelmed by the bright lights in the hall. He closed his eyes and hid his face again. He had no interest in listening to Fortinbras and Laertes debate his innocence, especially since he knew that no matter what they decided, Ophelia would still hate him. And she was right to. She was right.

“Horatio.” Fortinbras said again. “Can you stand?”

“No.” Horatio said.

“Can you try?”

Horatio shook his head. “They’re not my legs anymore.”

Fortinbras said something incomprehensible to Laertes and his footsteps retreated. “Are you in control of yourself?” Fortinbras asked. Her voice was firm, interrogative.

Horatio didn’t know so he shrugged.

“Can you move your foot?”

Horatio focused all his attention down and rolled his ankle. It may have moved but he didn’t trust his eyes.

“Now move your fingers.”

He tried.

“Alright. I’m going to lift you but you need to catch yourself.” Without waiting for a confirmation, Fortinbras stood and grabbed him under his armpits, hauling him roughly upwards. Horatio’s legs shook as he tried to find footing.

Fortinbras shoved him along and he stumbled into his bed. He curled tight on his side as exhaustion washed over him, the feeling so akin to that of being possessed that he nearly threw up. He could already tell Ariche was coming back. He could feel her stirring.

Fortinbras pulled the chair from his desk to the side of the bed and sat in silence for a moment. “I still don’t fully believe you aren’t making this up. Or that it isn’t, I don’t know, psychological.” She said.

“I hope it is.” Horatio muttered. He wanted to ask Fortinbras to call Hamlet but he was scared Ariche would take over mid-conversation. Calling his mom presented the same problem. Besides, Horatio wasn’t allowed to want anything. Not anymore. His every desire was a poison dagger against his friends’ wrists.

Fortinbras sighed, sounding restless. “Go to sleep if you want to.”

“She’ll come back faster. The last time I passed out, she took over completely.” No, the only rational solution was to stay awake for the rest of his life.

“Fine.” Fortinbras said.

Horatio swallowed. The guilt was an unbearable tearing, having grown so potent that he swore he must be bleeding out from his stomach. He pulled his arms around his middle to hold his guts in.

“I lied to Ophelia.” He listed out. “And Laertes. I stole the crucifix and kept it. I think I made Hamlet feel awful. I yelled at Ariche at lot. I made her feel terrible too. I slept with Hamlet and liked it. I still owe my mom ten dollars. And I took a pen from the bank.”

There was movement in the doorway and Fortinbras rose from her chair. “I’ll be back.” She said before walking away.

Horatio stared at the wall across from him, willing himself not to slip away as his vision began to swirl around the edges.

* * *

Hamlet was only semi-conscious when he awoke on a plane. He remembered Osric dosing him with something back at the Italian hotel room; a sedative of some sort. Whatever it was, he was completely out for the plane ride back to Paris. And, evidently, for most of the airport transportation. But he felt very awake and alert as he stumbled into the house at 12:03 PM to get the remainder of his luggage. Mostly because, against all odds, his mother and Claudius were there to greet him. The shock to his system was unwelcome and made him want to vomit. Osric was arranging their flight and would be out of commission for at least fifteen minutes. He was alone in hell for fifteen minutes.

“Hamlet, are you-” his mother moved quickly to touch him. He swatted her away violently.

“No!” Hamlet shrieked. “Do not touch me!” He cringed as Claudius rose, the wrong mirror image of his father. He could feel guilt and loathing mixed evenly behind his brilliant blue eyes.

“Don’t speak that way to her,” Claudius said stiffly, not quite committing.

“Why?” Hamlet laughed, last shred of calm lost as he was alone and within five feet of his mother and her lover. His uncle. Twin of his father. “Because you’ll kill me too?”

The stillness was unnatural. Claudius paled, and his mother’s dark eyes darted to him urgently. She was confused, Hamlet saw. She only looked like that when she was lost. “Hamlet,” she said carefully. “I think perhaps we should call Saint-Anne’s.”

“For who?” Hamlet blinked, feigning sweet innocence. “Me? Or the murderer you’re fucking?” He added. A flawlessly manicured hand raised to his cheek but never landed; she’d never strike him. Never had before, and she hated new things. He watched her chest heave as she cooled her head and caught her breath.

“I know it’s been hard,” she started. She took another step to him and this time, for reasons beyond him, he allowed her to touch his face. She frowned beautifully as she ran a finger along his cheekbone.

“No! No you don’t!” Hamlet sobbed. He shrugged off his sweater, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He escaped her and cornered his uncle. “You did this,” he said, convinced by everything he’d seen that it was the explanation. His father’s own ghost had accused him. “You did this to me,” he cried, exposing the gorey scars of his forearms. His mother covered her mouth delicately with a hand. “I wanted to see him,” Hamlet said through his tears. “He wanted to see me. He was in New York to see me,” he choked out.

“I--” Claudius backed up until he ran up against the kitchen island. “This isn’t my fault,” he said weakly. He looked like he might be ill. “You-you’re unwell. Letta always said you weren’t well. Of course you’d-”

“Mother!” Hamlet screamed, turning on her. She looked much less confident. “Why wasn’t I allowed to see the autopsy reports?!”

“Hamlet,” she said quietly, all bravado gone. “It wouldn’t be what he’d have wanted.”

“You think he wanted to die in the first place?” Hamlet wailed. He ran past his uncle to the sink, grabbing a kitchen knife. He heard his mother gasp. “Give me one good reason why.”

“What are you doing?” She shouted. He was vaguely aware that Claudius was moving towards her. Whether to keep her safe or himself remained to be seen.

“It’s me or him!” Hamlet cried, pointing the knife at Claudius. “I  know he’s somehow responsible! Give me one good reason why it shouldn’t be.”

“Stop this!” She urged, taking a step towards him. He stopped her by holding the knife against his wrist.

“Deal with this,” he challenged. “Talk me out of it.”

“Hamlet, you’re an adult-”

“Dad would have known what to say,” Hamlet reasoned. He pointed the knife back at Claudius. “If I don’t get answers I will kill everyone in this room.”

“Gertrude,” Claudius whispered, by her side. She glared at him.

“What is it, Mother?” Hamlet scoffed. “Can’t figure out how to tell your son you love him? That his life matters?” His tone darkened as she faltered, looking for the first time in his life like she might be near tears. “I bet you’re really regretting forgoing that abortion appointment.” Her eyes grew wide. The last of his love for her sank. 

“How did you-” she started, guilt flushing her alabaster cheeks.

“I didn’t,” Hamlet said, fresh tears starting. “I didn’t know. You just told me.”

“Why don’t we all just-” Claudius started.

“Shut up, Claudius,” his mother said sharply. There were tears in her eyes, though not quite from sadness. Frustration, maybe.

“Here,” Hamlet said, steadying his breath. “I’ll make it easy for you, since you’ve so clearly made a choice.” He leveled the knife horizontally between his ribs.

“Hamlet!” Hamlet turned and only had a moment before Osric was upon him, squeezing his wrist at just the right spot to make him drop the weapon. Hamlet struggled against him as he was held in a cross between a hug and a headlock by Osric’s strong arms.

“No!” He keened. “I won’t keep doing it! She wanted me dead before I was born, and she’s fucking a murderer!” He barely felt it as Orisc tensely hushed him and ran fingers through his hair, holding him firmly against his chest.

“Hamlet, breathe,” he instructed patiently. Hamlet writhed against him, sobbing and hyperventilating. It was ultimately exhausting. He found himself abandoning the struggle and settling for the crying.

“Horatio is mad at me, too,” Hamlet cried against his shoulder, holding onto him tightly. “I don’t have anyone left. Please just kill me,” he urged between tears. Osric rocked him slightly.

“Gertrude, I am going to take him back to New York,” Osric said very patiently. Coldly. “And you are going to sign over any lingering rights regarding Hamlet’s care to me.” Osric tried to guide him out.

“No,” Hamlet protested. “No, Osric, Claudius killed him,” he pressed, trying to get back. “He killed him!”

“Shh,” Osric rubbed his neck as they left the apartment. “That’s not a now problem,” he said soothingly, gently loading him into the car and fastening his seatbelt. “I’m going to go get your bags. Just the two, correct?”

Hamlet couldn’t manage words over the crying, so he just nodded. Osric was gone all of two minutes before he had the bags in the back and they were on the way to the airport.

Security was rushed. Evidently, if you’re a first-class passenger with pre-boarding and a mental breakdown they just don’t bother with the theatrics. Especially with Osric. Even an hour early they were allowed onto the plane, and for that Hamlet was grateful. It was quiet, and they were alone save for the judgmental flight attendants. Osric half-cradled him as his crying devolved into cycles rather than a constant downpour.

“Hamlet,” Osric said once they were in a calmer patch. “Would you like to call Horatio?”

Hamlet shook his head. “He’s mad at me,” he said weakly into the pillow in Osric’s lap. “He won’t want to come.” Osric sighed.

“Do you have definitive evidence of this?” He asked gently, rubbing circles into his shoulder. “Did Horatio say he didn’t want to come?”

“No…” Hamlet sniffled. “But he wasn’t happy when I called him.” There was some shuffling, and Hamlet looked up to see that Osric had taken out his phone. “What are you doing?” He asked, but Osric waved him off.

“Hello Horatio,” Osric said calmly. “Hamlet will be landing in New York at around 7:30 PM Eastern Standard Time. He asked to know if you would meet him there-”

“I didn’t,” Hamlet hissed miserably. “Osric, he won’t-”

“You’ll be there?” Osric asked. “Very good. I’ll let him know.” Osric hung up, facing him again. “Horatio will meet you at the airport. He seemed rather concerned for your well-being.”

Hamlet nodded and settled back in his lap. Other people were boarding now, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see their odd looks.

“Did you know?” Hamlet asked weakly as they took off.

“Know what?” Osric said patiently.

“That my mother didn’t want kids,” Hamlet asked miserably. “Or that Claudius was the killer. Did you know?”

Osric sighed heavily, petting his hair. “I know that your father wanted you more than anything, and she was nebulous in her feelings. I believe it was indecision to the point of no return,” he said with distaste. Hamlet nodded.

“And Claudius?” He asked.

“We don’t have any definitive proof yet,” Osric said carefully.

“And Horatio?” Hamlet added. “Did he sound angry?”

“He sounded very tired,” Osric said softly. “And very worried. I don’t think he’s upset with you.” Hamlet nodded again, though he didn’t quite believe him. “Can I interest you in something to help you sleep on the flight?”

“Is it Xanax?” Hamlet asked suspiciously.

“No,” Osric smiled. “Lorazepam. Similar, but not as intense.”

“Okay,” Hamlet sighed. Osric handed him the pill and he swallowed it dry, grimacing as the thing dissolved into powder at the back of his tongue. At least it didn’t taste like anything.

He drifted in and out during the flight. As it turned out, confronting his mother was more emotionally exhaustive than he would have guessed. Who would have thought that having the woman he hated most actually openly reject his existence would make him sad? In any case, to the chagrin of the other rich passengers, he spent maybe one hour sobbing to two hours asleep.

The airport was surprisingly sparse as they picked up the luggage. Which was good. Hamlet was one loud sound away from another meltdown, and considering the patience of the average New Yorker, no amount of money would save him from sharp comments and stares. He clung to Osric’s arm as they looked for Horatio in the lobby. Or rather, Osric looked. Hamlet was scared to see him; to be seen by him. He didn’t like vulnerability. The questions and concerns would hurt, especially following the complete shut down of empathy it required to be home.

“He’s over there,” Osric said quietly, drawing Hamlet’s attention away from the vaguely spider-shaped lint within a foot of him.

“He actually came?” Hamlet asked, looking strictly at Osric. He made them stop walking.

“Yes,” Osric sighed. “Are you going to go to him yourself, or do you need me to walk with you?” He asked condescendingly. Hamlet scowled at him, but it just earned him a slight smile. “Go,” Osric urged, patting his shoulder lightly.

With a deep breath, Hamlet wiped whatever tears were still on his face and straightened his back, setting his eyes with false ease on Horatio. Any composure he mustered, however, broke down when he saw the dark circles and general misery around him. Contrary to his goal of striding over confidently, he found himself running.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said as he reached him, wrapping his arms around his neck. Horatio held him almost so tightly it was painful. “Horatio, I missed you,” Hamlet cried quietly. He pressed his face into his shoulder, breathing deeply the familiar smell of his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Horatio said hollowly. With horror, Hamlet realized he was crying too. He kissed his cheek and neck desperately. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t right when you called, and I couldn’t-”

Hamlet cut him off with a kiss, sliding his hands under Horatio’s awful jacket just to be closer to him. “Please, just take me home.”


	28. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia watches a video. Horatio is free. Hamlet comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! We're finally on winter break which means we aren't subject to college for awhile! As always, we love comments and kudos! Every little bit of feedback helps! 
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include: mentions of parental death, mentions of abortion, anxiety/panic attacks

Ophelia couldn’t tell anyone how she made it back to her room or how she managed to drag Laertes with her. If she was a mess, then he was absolutely inconsolable. Ophelia’s tears had long since dried; her grief replaced with desperate rage.

No one got to hurt her brother. Ever. It was the one standard she had for herself that spanned her entire life. Everything in the world that was shining and bright died when he cried. And now here he was, sobbing against her shoulder, calling out for a mother that couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer. Ophelia shook her head. Couldn’t answer. Her mom couldn’t answer. There was no reality where they got to hear her voice again; no reality where she could pet their hair and tell them she was proud. There was nothing left. Nothing.

So, Ophelia pet Laertes’ hair and whispered empty words of comfort into his ear. It was the only way she could hold onto the last thread of her composure. If it snapped, she could feel herself slipping away to the destructive urges she so deeply wanted to indulge.

“Do you want to call Dad?” Ophelia asked. Laertes was tying and untying knots in a piece of scrap fabric. He shook his head no. “It could help. He might know what to do.”

“There’s nothing left to do,” Laertes didn’t sound like her brother. His voice was completely shot and barely filled the space between his mouth and her ear. “He can’t bring her back.”

“He can do other things.” Ophelia wished she could go back to Horatio’s apartment and cut the truth out of him.

“What is he supposed to do?” Laertes abandoned his scraps on fabric and held Ophelia’s hand and wrist. “What are we supposed to do? I want Mom. Ophelia, I want Mom back.”

“I know.” She pulled him into a real hug. “I want her back too. I’d give anything.” As difficult as this was for her, it was worse for Laertes. At least she was able to make a few friends at St. Cat’s. He had been completely and totally alone at St. Andrew’s. With no parents, no sister, and no friends, he suffered. He suffered a lot. Ophelia would never let him deal with this alone. Not again.

“What do we do?” He asked again.

“Grieve and try to move on?” Ophelia said miserably. It wasn’t supposed to sound like a question. How on earth was she supposed to move on if she couldn’t even get her goddamned necklace back.

Something hollow sat in the front of her throat. What if Horatio hadn’t lied about being possessed. There had to be a reason Fortinbras sent Laertes ahead of her. The thought sent claw marks of emotion through her chest. Would that be better or worse? She didn’t even know. Everything was ruined anyway. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing except Laertes and Fortinbras and her dad and Abuela.

“What are we supposed to do?” Laertes asked. The difference was subtle, but it was there.

“Remember her with joy,” Ophelia whispered repeating what their father had said.

“How?” Laertes wept. “We never learned how.”

And then Ophelia had an idea and maybe it was the worst thing she ever thought of, but it was the only thing she had to go on. She gave Laertes’ head one last pat before she left her bed and rummaged through her storage trunk. From the very bottom, she pulled out an ancient jewel case with an even older disk. She hadn’t looked at it in years and she wasn’t even sure if it would play on her laptop. On the cover was scrawled in her abuela’s spanish: _videos to show your friends how cute you were_.

“Do you remember this?” She asked, handing it to Laertes.

He sniffled. “I haven’t seen it in years.”

“Want to watch? It might help,” she said, returning to his side.

“I’ll cry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be here.”

Laertes nodded slowly and pressed the disk into the computer. After a minute of whirring, the first video started.

Ophelia could tell her dad was holding the camera that was focused on her and Laertes sitting in the middle of their living room. They were one year old and already impeccably dressed.

“Come to me, Lamb!” Her mom said with her arms outstretched. “Show Daddy what you can do!” Her voice was light and melodic. Ophelia had forgotten how beautiful it was.

Baby Ophelia pushed herself to her feet and ran to her mom. She wasn’t very good at it and almost tripped as her mom caught her. She help Ophelia in her arms and buried her face in her hair. “You did so well,” she sighed. “Look at your daddy!” She pointed at the camera and waved. “Look how happy he is!”

Her dad laughed and set the camera down as he sat next to her mom and hugged Ophelia. The camera moved back to Laertes as Polonius settled her into his lap.

“Lae! Come to Mommy!” she said patting the tops of her thighs. Laertes looked absolutely terrified. He swiveled around, his eyes scanning between his mom, Ophelia, and his dad with the camera. “Come on, buddy! Remember what we did earlier?” Laertes blinked. Her mom turned to her dad and smiled the same wide, lopsided smile she saw spread across Horatio’s face earlier. She shoved down the sick rising in her stomach. This was supposed to be something happy.

“I swear he did it earlier,” she said before opening her arms for Laertes. “Come of, Lae,” she smiled. “Don’t you want to be brave like Ophie?” Baby Laertes looked unsure. Adult Laertes snuggled into Ophelia’s arm and tried to stop crying.

“Lae! Lae!” Baby Ophelia babbled as she clapped. The camera fell askew as her dad tried to hold her still.

Laertes finally pushed himself to his feel and cautiously walked towards his mom. As soon as he was safely in her arms, Ophelia broke free from her dad’s grasp and hugged her twin brother.

“I’m so proud of you two!” Their mom sang. She kissed their foreheads and ruffled their hair. She smiled through her eyes as the video cut out. The silence was deafening and Ophelia wrapped a quilt around her brother’s shoulders.

The next video started with the camera trained on a mass of four year olds as they all tried to get a soccer ball. Ophelia and Laertes’ neon pink jerseys were so bright they blew out the camera. Off screen, they could hear their parents cheering. As Ophelia dove straight into the fray, Laertes chose to keep his distance with some of the other, more shy kids.

“Do you actually remember Bobby Mahler?” Adult Ophelia asked as she pointed at a kid on the screen. Amazingly, she remembered what happened next.

Baby Ophelia somehow managed to get the ball out of the clump and she took off down the field, trailed closely by Bobby Mahler. He had a solid three inches on her which meant the world when both participants were four. The timer started to tick down the final minute of the game when Bobby Mahler brought Ophelia to the ground with a hip check unbefitting of his age. She hit the grass hard and didn’t immediately hop up.

“Ophie!” Her mom yelped. “Please play nice, Bobby!”

Laertes ran over to his sister and helped her up, dusting off the bits of grass that stuck to her socks before taking off after Bobby Mahler.

“He was always a jerk,” Adult Laertes whispered. “I can’t believe, out of all the people, I got stuck with him at St. Andrew’s.”

Baby Laertes stole the ball and scored the goal with seconds to spare. He didn’t even give himself a second to celebrate before he returned to Ophelia who enveloped him in a hug. There was a little bit of blood on her knees and tears in her eyes. Laertes frowned and stormed towards Babby Mahler. Their dad stopped holding up the camera as he raced to get his kids, but they could still half hear the conversation.

“That was mean,” Baby Laertes said. Ophelia could imagine his serious eyes and hands on his hips. “Please be nice to my sister.”

“What?” the little brat asked.

“Pushing her down wasn’t nice and it was against the rules. Don’t be mean to my sister.” The soft shuffling sounds might have indicated he took a step forward. 

“Lae, Ophie!” their mom called. She kneeled on the ground and both kids ran into her arms. She wore the mommest of mom jeans and a thick yellow sweater that their abuela almost certainly made herself. “Thank you for standing up for your sister,” she said as Laertes beamed. “It was a very brave thing to do. I’m very proud of you.” The two kids hugged each other and then ran to hug their dad when the video cut out.

There was a small knock on the door. Ophelia hopped up and opened it to see an exhausted Fortinbras on the other side. If Ophelia had to guess, she would have said that she pulled three consecutive all nighters, but really, it was talking with Horatio. Fortinbras murmured incomprehensible words as she more or less collapsed into Ophelia’s arms. Both Laertes and Fortinbras leaned on their respective shoulder.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Fortinbras whispered.

“No, it’s all good.” Ophelia tried to smile as she half closed her laptop. “We don’t really watch the rest of them anyway because we get older and it gets--”

“Ophie?” Laertes asked, reopening the laptop. “Have you ever seen this one before?”

“I just told you, I’ve never--” she stopped in her tracks as she looked into the eyes of her mother. Her face filled the entire frame and the video quality was much better than it had been. Fortinbras wrapped her arms around her waist.

“Hi kids,” their mom said, pushing a strand of graying hair away from her eyes. “I know there’s not really a good way to do this, but I had to leave a note. I don’t exactly have a ton of CDs to tape onto anymore. Hopefully I’m not ruining some get together,” She laughed. Even though unbearable sadness and grief permeated all her features, there was still light reaching her eyes. “Your dad will kill me if you find this when you’re still kids. I’m giving this to your abuela. She’ll know what to do.”

Laertes held Ophelia’s hand tight. Fortinbras tried to get up to leave, but Ophelia pulled her back. They made eye contact and she nodded. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you to see your cousins in Mexico City, but I needed you to be far away from me so I knew you would be safe. So,” her voice cracked. “Because I’ll never get the chance to say it, here I go. Letting you two go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I think about you walking towards that plane every day. I’m sorry I have to leave you alone.”

Laertes hand hovered over the close button, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it.

“Lae,” their mom said and her voice filled with love. “I am so proud of you and the man you will become. You remind me every day that there is goodness in this world. You’ve persevered through everything and I know you can persevere through this too. You’re going to do such brave things. I wish I could be there to see them.” Tears brimmed in her eyes and Laertes buried him head into Ophelia’s shoulder. She pet his hair and tried to keep herself together.

“Ophie, Lamb,” her mother said. “I know I don’t have to worry about you because you’ll always find a way to overcome. Please keep standing up for your brother. My greatest triumph as a parent has been you two loving each other so much. I’m proud of you, Lamb, and I’ll always be proud of the things you create.”

Fortinbras squeezed her hand as silent tears dripped down her cheeks.

“Promise me you’ll look after your father? It’s hard on him too. He loves you so much. _I_ love you so much. You two were the best things that have ever happened to us and I’m proud to be your mother and I would have given the rest of my life to see you grow up. I know you will be wonderful people who will do wonderful things. I love you to the sky and back.” Their mom took a deep breath and raised her hand to sign. “I love you,” she said and signed. Ophelia didn’t notice that she was signing back.

The air felt dead and stagnant. Even though she knew she was touching Laertes and Fortinbras, Ophelia couldn’t feel a thing. The silence threatened to choke her from the inside out.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Laertes whispered as thin as reeds. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ophelia answered, still lost.

After Laertes left, Fortinbras helped Ophelia lay on the head. She wrapped her arms around her and nuzzled into the crook of her neck. Even if Ophelia couldn’t feel anything else, she could feel her breath against her skin.

“What happened with Horatio?” She asked.

“I should tell you tomorrow,” Fortinbras whispered. “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Tell me now,” she sighed. “Anything’s better than feeling dead.”

Fortinbras took a deep breath. “I really don’t think Horatio is lying about being possessed by your mom.”

“What?” Every single human emotion crashed into Ophelia all at once. She was wrong. There was one thing worse than apathy.

“Do you want me to explain now or…” Fortinbras trailed away and Ophelia held her closer. She pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

“No,” Ophelia whispered. “No, I’m sorry. Tomorrow.” She didn’t sound sure of herself. “I should have believed you.”

Fortinbras pet the back of Ophelia’s hair. “You’ll be able to talk to her one more time,” she whispered. “You’ll be able to say goodbye.”

“But that means that she...no. She couldn’t. Not her--” Ophelia was trying so hard not to break down in Fortinbras’ arms. She could feel herself shaking, like Fortinbras’ arms were the only thing keeping her guts where they were supposed to be.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Fortinbras whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

* * *

Ariche hadn’t come back, though whether that was because she had been subdued by Ophelia’s vicious attack on her and Horatio’s collective character or because the insane rush of adrenaline created by the reappearance of Hamlet had prompted her to fall back into the inflamed crucifix, Horatio couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Osric had called, Fortinbras had lingered then left, and he’d ended up at the airport. All the details in between were fuzzy and unimportant. He had probably paid for subway fare.May have said goodbye to Fortinbras. He could have flipped off a few people while pushing his way out of the subway station but that was basically the New Yorker’s version of a friendly wave anyway.

No, what mattered was Hamlet. Hamlet with tear stains on his neck and abject misery in his deeply hooded eyes and an impossible sharpness to his cheeks. Hamlet who leaned into him and shoved his hands beneath his jacket and ordered Horatio to take him home. All that mattered was Hamlet now.

Osric drove them back to the penthouse while they sat in the backseat. To say Hamlet hung off him the whole way was an understatement. The other man was practically in his lap the entire ride home, working his way through the tale of their wild week apart with clear conviction but incomprehensible delivery. Horatio managed to glean only a few clipped phrases about abortions and burning corpses and salamanders between Hamlet’s heaving sobs.

“It’s over now,” Horatio said soothingly as he stroked Hamlet’s hair back and pressed slightly desperate kisses along his forehead and neck. It was disconcerting to hold Hamlet after so many days of disconnect. With each sense still heightened by disuse, he could pick up every single change in Hamlet, from his strange lightness to the clamminess of his skin to the odd smell of his hair, lemongrass and pale sea water instead of roses and lavender. Still, he ran his hands under Hamlet’s shirt and rubbed gentle circles everywhere he could reach. Simple touches, but assurances as well. That Hamlet was here and not there, wherever there was, with whoever had hurt him.

The penthouse was frigid when they arrived and Horatio silently cursed himself for ever leaving, for not having it ready for Hamlet’s homecoming. Osric, god bless him, seemed to catch onto the sorry state of the apartment instinctively and floated about fixing the heat and closing blinds. Horatio steered Hamlet into the bedroom and onto the bed, bundling the thick quilts around them both.

“Outside clothes.” Horatio and Hamlet said together. As soon as Osric had retreated from the bedroom, Horatio wriggled his way out of his pants and shirt, kicking them out from beneath the blanket. He helped Hamlet with his shirt, paying close attention to the way the other man winced as he carefully worked his arms out of the sleeves.

“Hamlet,” he asked helplessly, “what…what happened?” He forced his eyes away from Hamlet’s painfully thin form and to his raw and wrecked face. His eyes seemed to sink with something darker than despair, black obsidian drawing all light into their inky depths. Horatio didn’t protest when Hamlet leaned forward and crashed into him, kissing him too hard to be enjoyable. He raised his hands and traced the points of Hamlet’s cheeks. “Hamlet,” he repeated almost warningly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hamlet breathed through a break in his crying. He kissed Horatio again and his lips were just as soft as before, just as dizzying and consumptive, if in an altered way. A disconcertingly graveness.

“I am worried about it,” Horatio said firmly as Hamlet pulled back for breath. “What happened?”

“Mother doesn’t want me.” Hamlet said instead of answering. “She never did. Had an abortion appointment and everything before she decided she’d rather just let me suffer for the crime of existing.” His voice was an even cross between deadened acceptance and utter grief.

Horatio courted a flash of violent intent which commanded him to book a plane and fly to Paris right now so that he could put his sword straight through Gertrude’s stomach. He bet she had the same ideas about death that Hamlet did, a desire for her passing to be beautiful and angelic. He’d make sure to rip her guts out her throat. The gorier the better.

He took a breath to ensure the evenness of tone as he kissed Hamlet’s hairline and hugged him. “Your mother’s a frigid bitch. She doesn’t deserve you. Lots of people want you around.”

“Who?” Hamlet laughed bitterly. “Osric?”

“I do,” Horatio said surely. “You’re the best part of my life.”

His honesty seemed to surprise Hamlet, though any tenderness in his gaze quickly surrendered to wariness.

“You are,” Horatio assured him. He considered recounting to Hamlet the terror of the past week, not knowing if he was coming home, not knowing if he was even alive, but there was already too much pain in the room to accommodate more. “You’re the most important person in my life and if your mother can’t see how amazing you are, that’s her problem. If you need a mom, you can just borrow mine.”

Hamlet frowned. “Your mom hates me.”

“I’ll tell her she has to like you,” Horatio said comfortingly.

Hamlet nodded distractedly as a fresh wave of exhaustion fueled tears emerged. “I just don’t understand. She’s married to a murderer and she doesn’t even care. She doesn’t care if I die!” His voice pitched up suddenly.

Horatio pulled him back onto the bed as Hamlet keened into his chest. Murderer? He was sure he’d heard murderer. Did that mean…

Horatio’s blood ran cold. Claudius. Claudius was Hamlet Sr.’s killer. It made sense, a jealous monster eliminating his brother to gain company control. Still, the ploy was so laughably predictable, it was almost unbelievable. It was like Hamlet announcing that the butler had done it.

Horatio tucked his face into Hamlet’s odd smelling hair. “Are you sure?” He asked weakly as his mind rewound the sensation of lead shattering bone.

Hamlet nodded.

Silence lingered for a moment, punctuated only by Hamlet’s slowing breath. Having apparently tired himself out with sobbing, the other’s eyes were slowly drifting shut. Horatio frowned and shook Hamlet gently, forcing his own mind to refocus.

“No sleep.” He ordered. “Food.”

“No.” Hamlet protested half-heartedly.

“Yes.” Shoving down guilt and fleeting panic, Horatio stood from the bed. He kissed Hamlet deeply before the other could properly whimper, pushing his hands up and into his hair. “Do you want chocolate?”

“No.” Hamlet said with just a touch of his normal fierceness. “That has calories.”

“You’re at least ten pounds lighter than when you left. Trust me, you need them.” Horatio said. “Chocolate? Yay or nay?”

“Nay.”

“Too bad.” Horatio strode out of the room before he could change his mind and crossed quickly to the pantry. Ignoring Osric’s questioning glance, he crawled on his knees to the very back and dragged aside Hamlet’s collection of untouched pasta sauces. Thankfully, the candy stash he’d started freshman year was still there. He pulled out the jack-o-lantern pail and brought it back to the bedroom.

He clambered back under the covers. “Eat.” Horatio ordered as he deposited the pail into Hamlet’s lap.

Hamlet stared at the pail’s cute orange grin with obvious disdain. “No.”

“Now.” Horatio said.

Hamlet stared him down. Then he picked up a Hershey's bar and, maintaining his feeble glower, took the tiniest bite from the corner. A pitiful start but a start. Horatio hesitated, trying to decide what else would help Hamlet feel better. More like himself. He needed to do something, preferably with his hands, or else he was sure he’d spontaneously combust.

“Keep eating.” Horatio said. Hamlet made a horrified noise as he stood again and crossed to the bathroom.

“Okay,” Horatio said as he returned to the bed and allowed Hamlet to fall back into his arms. His heart sung sweetly for the contact, for the returning warmth of Hamlet’s soft skin. “Finish the candy bar.” He prompted with a touch more gentleness as he sat himself up and began to run the slender brush through Hamlet’s hair. It wasn’t much of a help to his disheveled appearance but, since he doubted highly Hamlet would consent to a bath right now, it would have to do.

As soon as Hamlet finished the candy bar (or finished a third of it, as it were), his eyes drifted closed once more. Horatio paused in his work and kissed Hamlet sweetly on the cheek. “How can I help you?” He asked.

“Talk to me.” Hamlet said softly.

“About?”

“Anything.”

Horatio nodded. “Okay,” he parted Hamlet’s hair. He felt his body relax in accordance with Hamlet’s. “I’ll list out everything great about you. That should fill the better part of the next five hours.” Horatio said.

Hamlet didn’t respond, though it was impossible to tell if it was because he had already fallen asleep off or not.

Horatio snuggled more fully into the over-plush bed, allowing all his worries to flow into hidden depths as he hyper focused on Hamlet. “You’re passionate, more so than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re bright, like a bonfire no one can resist pausing beside, hoping to gain a hint of the warmth you exude.” Horatio smiled thinly. “You’re insanely diligent. I have no clue how you keep track of all the parts of your morning routine or schedules. You’re smart.” He dropped his voice to a playful whisper. “And apparently have a photographic memory, so you better believe I’m going to start expecting constant Gatsby quotes while we’re having sex. You’re absolutely gorgeous but not in a normal way. You’re beautiful because you’re soft and sharp in a single breath. Plus you’re hot because your cock turns the prettiest blush red when you’re aroused. And your skin is just incredible.”

Horatio paused. “That last one’s probably pretty creepy to say out loud. Sorry.” Hamlet didn’t respond. Definitely asleep then. He paused in his listing to stare at Hamlet’s peaceful face as he drew stars across the other’s chest. He smiled fondly as Hamlet’s nose crinkled.

“Your nose scrunches up when you sleep.” Horatio said. “It’s very cute and makes you look incredibly dumb. I love it. I love you.”

* * *

Hamlet woke up around three in the morning to find Horatio snuggled against him. He woke up because of something sharp poking him, and he found the culprit easily. He glared at it, wrinkling his nose. A crucifix. He was only gone for a bit more than a week; not nearly long enough to justify a return to faith. He turned the object in his hands, slightly offended by how frigid it was despite having been pressed between him and Horatio. The initials on the back were odd; there were many sets. O.E.C he recognized as Ophelia’s. Not at all the initials of Horatio’s family.

“Did you steal this?” He whispered. Horatio didn’t respond. Hamlet remembered that there had been a ghost incident with Ophelia immediately before he left for Europe. “You stole this,” he sighed. If he knew Ophelia, this was probably a big deal. Ghost or not. She’d probably hang them both if it wasn’t resolved.

Carefully, he unfastened the gawky chain from around Horatio’s neck. The poor man looked like he hadn’t slept soundly in days. He nearly missed the minute relaxation of his brow as the jewelry was removed. He kissed him lightly between the brows, getting up carefully.

Osric was asleep on the couch, but he stirred at the quiet sound of the bedroom door being closed. Hamlet wrapped the necklace in a hand-towel before wandering over to him, uncaring of the fact that he was wearing nothing but boxers.

“I need you to take this back to Ophelia,” Hamlet said quietly.

“What is it?” Osric asked, completely alert despite the unholy hour.

“I think it’s a Catholic thing,” Hamlet shrugged. “It was on Horatio.”

“You’re sure it’s not his Catholic thing?” Osric asked.

“Unless Horatio’s initials are O.E.C. I don’t think so,” Hamlet said, shoving the package into Osric’s hands. “Just take it to her and apologize for Horatio’s sticky fingers. I’m going back to bed.” Hamlet glanced desperately back to the bedroom door, shivering slightly.

“Very well,” Osric sighed. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Mhm,” Hamlet hummed, already heading back to his room.

Horatio was already sprawled across his spot, taking up significantly more of the king-sized bed than he really had any need to. Hamlet wanted to curl up against him again, but he felt like he smelled like airports. He’d only really showered the time back in Italy, which put him about fifteen hours behind his typical bathing schedule. He should probably also do an emergency charcoal mask, just to be safe. God only knew what toxins being in his mother’s presence had exposed him to.

He grabbed his robe and towel, and found that he nearly cried when he saw how utterly perfect his bathroom was. It felt more like home than any other part of his house. He applied the charcoal mask after washing his face, letting it set and dry as the water came up to temperature. Horatio might wake up at the sound, since he’d left the door open, but it was a good sign. Hamlet decided that it probably meant he was feeling better if he was aware of how filthy he was.

Hamlet scrubbed his hair so hard that it hurt, but he needed to somehow get all the salt out. He’d been so dead in Italy that even a two-hour long shower hadn’t suitably done the trick. Following that, he combed the shampoo out and the conditioner in, letting it sit as he washed his body and rinsed the charcoal off his face. All told, it was probably his most productive twenty-minutes since the time he sped read the entire first act of Horatio’s play before auditions.

Horatio slept through the shower, but he emerged once the hair-dryer started, even if it was on the low setting. Hamlet shut it off as he leaned in the doorframe.

“Are you alright?” Hamlet asked, catching the hazy look in Horatio’s eyes. He looked a little slimmer than normal, which sent a sympathetic wave of anxiety through him. Was this how Horatio felt every time he saw him naked after a breakdown?

“I feel great,” Horatio smiled sleepily. Hamlet relaxed a bit, awkwardly setting a swirl of hair back in place. It was dry enough. “How are you?”

“Tired,” Hamlet said as he eyed himself again in the mirror. He looked like he’d been punched in both eyes.

“Come back to bed,” Horatio offered quietly, opening his stance and holding out a hand. Hamlet looked one last time at his still partially-damp hair. He’d fix it tomorrow.

Hamlet followed Horatio back to bed, smiling despite himself as Horatio kissed his face and buried his nose in his hair. “You’re awfully cuddly,” Hamlet whispered, though he clung to Horatio all the same.

“You smell like flowers again,” Horatio said into his cheek. Hamlet traced his fingers along his side, warmth filling him as he felt each curve of his body.

“I showered,” Hamlet said simply. He pushed Horatio onto his back, laying fully across him. Even under all the quilts and with Horatio’s skin against his own he still felt chilled. He wrapped his arms around Horatio’s neck and kissed his lips gently before settling his head against his chest. He smelled the same as always, and he was glad for it.

The peace was short-lived. He smelled like flowers. He was pretty again. He was fully enveloped in Horatio’s arms on the king-sized bed that he’d had since freshman year, in his bedroom, in the apartment his mother bought for him. His mother wanted him dead. He’d always _said_ she did, but it was different when he knew beyond a doubt that it was true. Or had been true. Who knew how she felt now. She probably wanted him dead more than ever, since she was living her nightmarish fantasy of living with his father’s power-hungry mirror image. Who was a murderer. It tracked.

“What’s wrong?” Horatio asked against his ear. Hamlet sighed. Talking might help. It might also make things infinitely worse.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Hamlet said quietly.

“Later?” Horatio pushed gently.

“Later,” Hamlet sighed. He closed his eyes, sinking his weight into Horatio. He liked how their bodies fit together. Their curves and edges fit against one another like puzzle pieces.

“Do you want to come hang out with my mom?” Horatio asked after a pause, breaking the comfortable silence. Hamlet propped himself up so he could look at him, raising a bow.

“Are you serious?” Hamlet asked suspiciously. “She doesn’t like me.”

“She could learn to like you,” Horatio said earnestly. “I was thinking of seeing her this weekend anyways.”

Hamlet considered his options. He could refuse, and face being separated from Horatio for longer than five minutes. Or he could go, and face the perils of interacting with a mom. “I’ll go if you go,” he finally conceded. The upside to his own mother was that he knew there was absolutely no one who could make him more upset.

“Really?” Horatio asked, green eyes smiling even as he tried to stay neutral.

“Yeah, sure,” Hamlet said with staged ease. “Just so long as I don’t need to eat anything I hate.”

“Uh…” Horatio looked uncomfortable. “Okay? We’ll see.”

If Hamlet recalled correctly, this was Horatio’s over-polite way of admitting that he had utterly no control over the menu that they would be served. A menu which featured authentic Italian dishes, olive-oil and all. What surprised Hamlet was that, either due to exhaustion or continued hunger, he didn’t particularly care.

Hamlet pulled the fluffy comforter even higher over his back, making a sort of cave over his head. It would undoubtedly muss his hair, but he figured he’d live. He was hell-bent on only interacting with Osric and Horatio, with the possible exception of Horatio’s mother. Caterina di Levanti was a powerful presence, but Hamlet had practiced ignoring people under the guidance of his mother, the reigning master of passive aggression and stony silence.

He snuggled into Horatio again, this time with the full intention of sleeping. He made a small sound of protest as Horatio moved, but he relaxed as he realized he was only settling into a more comfortable position. Hamlet felt himself melt as Horatio ran his fingers gently along his back, massaging the tight muscles lightly wherever he found a knot.

“Did you miss me?” Hamlet asked as a wave of insecurity took him. He was vaguely aware that Horatio had said assurances to him earlier, but he was too blinded by panic then to remember what was said. All he knew was the conversation he had with his mother.

Horatio brought one hand up to the back of his neck, cradling the back of his head with it and running his fingertips through his hair. “I missed you so much,” Horatio whispered. Something in his voice was enough to convince him that he meant it. Against all odds his eyes were wet again. He wiped them awkwardly on his arm, hoping to escape Horatio’s watchful gaze. Judging by the light kisses Horatio pressed to his neck and shoulder he wasn’t discrete enough. Hamlet let himself be kissed deeply on the lips before he settled back down.

“I missed you a lot,” Hamlet muttered as he let himself drift off. “I couldn’t sleep without you,” he added. He was pretty sure he said it out loud, but it was hard to tell as he slipped asleep.


	29. Figuring it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia tries to sleep. Horatio is distracted. Hamlet gets a boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the sporadic updates lately! Travel, holidays, and family kinda get in the way of a stable schedule, but we're back now! Comments and kudos always make our day, so never be afraid to speak up!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include: Mentions of parental death and abandonment

Ophelia figured that eventually she would become too tried or too sad and she could just sleep. Eventually. Because that was totally how it always worked. She sighed and nuzzled into Fortinbras’ shoulder. Her skin was soft and warm against her cheek. Fortinbras pushed a curl of hair behind Ophelia’s ear. Moonbeam eyes met brown and the corners of Fortinbras’ mouth turned downward.

“You should try to sleep.” Fortinbras whispered as she rubbed the pad of her thumb along Ophelia’s jaw. “You’ll be miserable in the morning.”

“I’m miserable now,” Ophelia muttered as she leaned into Fortinbras’ palm. She kissed the bridge of her nose and wrapped her arm around her waist. Unnatural stillness sat heavy in the air. A spark of panic caught in Ophelia’s chest. She pressed her forehead to Fortinbras’ and felt her soft breath against her face. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Do?” Fortinbras asked. “There isn’t really much you can do.” She let her fingers trail through Ophelia’s hair. “Sleep. Work on your capstone. Sleep more. Please sleep more,” she whispered as she pulled Ophelia closer.

She tried to sit up, but Fortinbras was comfortably settled against her stomach and chest. “I can’t,” Ophelia said. “I can’t stop thinking.” It was true. Even if her eyes hurt and her arms ached, her internal monologue was wearing a ring into her brain. If Fortinbras was right then her mother possessed her best friend and she had screamed at him and it wasn’t his fault and her mom abandoned her. Her mom abandoned her and Horatio never wanted to see her again and she lost Hamlet and everything was lost. She held Fortinbras. Not everything, she decided. She had to decide.

“Are you sure?” Ophelia finally asked. “Are you sure he wasn’t making it up?”

Fortinbras took a deep breath and kissed Ophelia’s cheek. “I am...pretty sure, man.”

“Why?”

“This sort of thing isn’t really Horatio’s style, right? Like, I’ve talked to him a lot. I’ve talk to him about you a lot and it seems like he really values your friendship. It wouldn’t make sense that he would suddenly decide to just torment you.” She laughed, a hollow, lifeless thing that rang in Ophelia’s ear. “That’s not really a thing people do, much less friends.”

“If it would make Hamlet happy…” Ophelia trailed away.

“Listen, Ophelia. Horatio might be Hamlet’s bitch, but he wouldn’t do something like that to hurt you. As far as I can see, there’s nothing Hamlet or anyone could gain from just...being cruel.”

“He would do anything Hamlet says and Hamlet hates me. He’d want to get back at--”

“Are you really suggesting that it’s _Hamlet’s_ fault all this has gone down? I really don’t think he’s thought about you for a second since you broke up,” Fortinbras said seriously.

“No. No,” Ophelia rubbed her eyes. “I don’t think, it’s just...easier.”

“I don’t think she wanted to abandon you, Ophelia.” Fortinbras whispered as she rubbed her thumb over her knuckles.

“I don’t think--”

“Yes you do,” she whispered. “Imagine if it were you and your kid. The first time she had seen you since she died, she hurt you.” Fortinbras traced her finger gently around the scar of the cross. “She really, really hurt you. And she wouldn’t want to do it again. If distance could keep you safe and Horatio is...sensitive to these things, then it would make sense for her to ask for his help…”

“But she didn’t ask and he didn’t ask. We could have figured it out. We could have…” Ophelia cut herself off. “I couldn’t have. I don’t know how.”

“Horatio doesn’t know how either. No one knows how.” Fortinbras kissed her forehead. “This is weird and normal people don’t really have to figure it out. I mean, at least you know some possible motives now and it might help.”

“I should forgive them.” Ophelia steeled herself. “It’s not their fault so it’s the right thing to do.”

“Woah, woah, I didn’t say that.” Fortinbras laughed softly, for real this time. “Hamlet’s still a bitch, Horatio still lied and stole from you, and your mom still possessed him. You don’t have to forgive them all point blank in order to figure all this out.”

“They won’t want me to talk to them until I apologize,” Ophelia said miserably. “Horatio will just get an exorcist or leave her in a church or something,” she spat. The thought left a bad taste in her mouth. Her mother didn’t belong in a church.

“Look at it this way, either they will because they’re secretly decent human beings, they will because they feel burdened by strangling guilt, or they won’t and they’ll prove that they’re not worthy of your forgiveness.” Fortinbras sighed and smiled slightly against Ophelia’s hair. “They have to be worthy of your forgiveness.”

“And what if they won’t help?” Ophelia asked. “Then what happens?”

“Then I’ll take the crucifix from Horatio’s neck and we’ll never have to deal with them ever again. Then, we’ll deal with it ourselves.”

Ophelia was about to say something but there was a soft knock at the door. At first, she thought she imagined it and snuggled back against Fortinbras. Then, there was another knock and Laertes stirred. Ophelia groaned and went to her door.

It was 3AM. Three o’clock in the fucking morning. The only good reason for knocking on her door that early was if someone was actually, literally dying. She swung the door open and Osric’s tired eyes stared back at her.

“Um...hi?” she said, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. She felt Fortinbras stand at her shoulder and Laertes sit up in the chair. Now that she was on her feet, the exhaustion was swimming in her eyes. Osric’s face looked hazy and she couldn’t quite focus on anything specific.

“Hello Ms. Cortez…” There was an strange pause. “Ophelia. I’m sorry for bothering you so late at night, but Hamlet wished me to inform you that I should apologize for Horatio’s ‘sticky fingers’ as he says and give you this.” He held out a small, folded hand towel.

Ophelia held the warm, fluffy fabric in her hand before she tried to respond. Sleep settled in her shoulder blades and pulsed with deep orange light behind her eyes. She just neede to sleep.

“Uhh, tell him I say thanks,” Ophelia mumbled. It was weird and funny. She couldn’t really remember leaving a towel at Hamlet’s and she didn’t know why that was so important it had to be delivered at 3AM, but it was late and Ophelia’s eyelids were so heavy.

Fortinbras said some sort of pleasantry to Osric before gently closing the door and leading Ophelia back to bed. She threw the towel on top of the desk.

“Ophelia, are you alright?” Fortinbras asked her as she pulled the quilt over their shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ophelia mumbled. “I’m good.” She nuzzled into the crook of Fortinbras’ neck. “I’m perfect.”

* * *

Horatio woke up with a heavy, dull feeling rolled deep into his chest, like his organs were coated in warm molasses. It was a lovely sensation, so unlike the frigid sharpness of days past that Horatio sighed aloud.

The sound roused Hamlet, who turned over and burrowed deeper into Horatio’s chest. Horatio bent forward and kissed his crown gently. “You said you missed me,” he whispered with soft glee.

It was a small thing, but all the same, the words were nice to hear. It was nice to be missed. Horatio squirmed deeper under the sheets, content to remain ‘asleep’ for as long as possible, but was stopped as he became aware of how light his upper chest felt. How normal.

Horatio reached up and patted his neck, a small spike of panic racing up his spine. Hamlet grunted as Horatio pushed him off, sitting up in bed.

“What are you doing?” Hamlet complained blearily as Horatio tore aside the sheets.

Horatio sat back, blinking at Hamlet like a deer in the headlights. “Have you seen a necklace?” He asked, panic and unresolved relief waring through his stricken voice.

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “Ophelia’s necklace?”

“I…” Horatio nodded frantically. “Yes, Ophelia’s necklace. The- The cross. Where is it?”

“Back with Ophelia.” Hamlet said, crossing his arms. He appeared extremely annoyed to have been woken up by Horatio’s rummaging. “It is hers, isn’t it? I doubt she gave it to you.”

“Of course she didn’t give it to me,” Horatio snapped. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. Way to incriminate himself. Though, he supposed, who didn’t know at this point? Hamlet was just the icing on the cake.

Hamlet frowned at him, eyes quickly racking his figure. “Ghosts?” He guessed.

Horatio blinked at him, temporarily distracted from attempting to weight out the ethical ramifications of abandoning Ophelia to her crazy ghost mom vs breaking into her room to steal it back again. “How did you…?” He asked slowly.

Hamlet shrugged. “You only get panicked over ghosts.”

“I mean…” Horatio thought it over, “I guess that’s fair? We still need to-”

“No we don’t.” Hamlet cut him off. He leaned forward and gently pushed Horatio back on the bed, lying on top of him again.

Horatio fidgeted beneath him, aware that he could push Hamlet off but unwilling to so long as the other continued to linger close to his face. “I really should-” Horatio tried again.

“Nope.” Hamlet ordered.

“Hamlet-”

“Horatio.”

Horatio whined a bit in the back of his throat. “Please, Hamlet, I need that cross back. Ophelia’s going to get herself-”

This time Hamlet blocked his protests with a kiss while simultaneously rolling his hips against Horatio’s. Of course, he was aware by now the teasing was a distraction technique but his mind scattered far too delightfully for him to really care. Horatio leaned up and into the kiss as the warm heat in his chest dropped downwards.

“Better?” Hamlet asked coyly.

Horatio frowned, aware that any answer he gave would be as good as admitting he’d let himself be distracted. Instead he wrapped his arms around Hamlet’s back and pulled him closer. “How are you doing this morning?” Horatio asked seriously.

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking this in a ‘I’m worried about you’ way or a ‘I want to have sex but I need to check in first’ way?”

Horatio shrugged. “Either. Preferably both.”

Hamlet hesitated just a bit too long to be believable. “I’m doing fine.”

Horatio narrowed his eyes and reluctantly pulled back. “Do you want to talk more?” He asked carefully.

“Can you even talk while horny?” Hamlet deflected.

“As a matter of fact, I’m quite adept at-” Hamlet shifted his hips a bit more and Horatio lost his train of thought. He took a moment to collect himself then blushed. “I...suppose I may see your point.”

“Mhm.” Hamlet said with a small, obviously faked smirk. He reached down to snag the edges of Horatio’s boxers, giving them a light tug.

Horatio willed himself not to give any physical response though he didn’t really have too much choice in the matter. He moaned as Hamlet pulled down his underwear and wrapped a hand around his cock. Horatio tried to steal himself as he looked him directly in the eye. “I know what you’re doing. Just because it’s working, doesn’t mean-”

Hamlet twisted his wrist, drawing Horatio’s breath short. He swallowed hard. “Then we’ll talk more?” He asked dumbly.

“Sure.” Hamlet’s smirk was more real this time, or so Horatio could make himself believe. He gave up and shifted down on the bed, working Hamlet’s boxers off with one hand while he used the other to trace down his sternum. Hamlet adjusted himself so that he was lying on his back as Horatio pushed back the abundance of blankets so that he could settle between Hamlet’s legs. He wrestled between the desire to run down a long list of consent questions, just to be extra sure, and simply trusting that Hamlet would tell him when to stop. He glanced to Hamlet’s face.

Hamlet, noticing his hesitation, propped himself up on his elbows. As if reading his mind, Hamlet sighed. “Yes, I swear I’m good.”

“Great.” Horatio leaned forward and, beginning at Hamlet’s belly button, kissed his way down and then up the length of his partially erect dick. He paused at the head, swirling his tongue around it before taking the tip into his mouth. It was relatively easy from that point to lose himself in the act, pushing the majority of his focus into memorizing the feeling of Hamlet’s bare skin against his own and the warmth of the cock against his tongue and the back of his throat. As he worked, listening to Hamlet release sighs which became small groans which turned to wonderful moans, Horatio rubbed his own cock in time to the movement of his mouth. He shuddered as Hamlet rocked his hips and came with a groan, releasing into Horatio’s mouth. The feeling of hot cum against his tongue was enough to make Horatio climax as well and he sighed loudly as the building heat in his gut emptied into his palm.

Horatio sat back, wiping his hand against his nearby boxers. He leaned against the bed once more, riding out the after-waves of pleasure as Hamlet snuggled into his side, soft hair brushing against his bare shoulder.

He stared at the ceiling for a few solid minutes before coming back to himself. “So, ghosts.” He considered bringing up Ophelia’s mom again before pushing the idea away. There was no way he’d get through that without trapping himself again. He dismissed Ariche from his mind as best as he could and shifted onto the next subject. “Was the trip successful? Beyond, you know...your mom being a disgrace to humankind.”

Hamlet frowned, obviously having hoped that the sex would buy him more time. His demeanor seemed to darken considerably as he prepared himself to speak. “Yorick was weird and creepy but helpful, I think. I know what I need to do to put my dad to…” The stoniness in his voice suddenly cracked. He stopped and waved a vague hand in the air above him.

Horatio nodded his understanding. “What do you have to do?” He asked cautiously.

“...Burn him.” Hamlet said gravely.

The words hung in the air, thoroughly dampening whatever pleasant mood had been manufactured. Horatio rolled over to face Hamlet. “When?”

“Soon. Before winter.”

Very, very soon then. Horatio paused as a new coil of nervousness settled in his gut. “Are you going to be able to do it?”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them as Hamlet seemed to shut down on himself. It took a few moments of stillness before Hamlet spoke again though he pointedly avoided Horatio’s eye. “I told you not to mess with ghosts while I was gone.”

“You did.” Horatio admitted.

Another heavy beat of silence. “Horatio,” Hamlet said slowly, “if I asked you to do something to help me, would you do it?”

Horatio weighed the severity of the statement. “Most likely.” He decided.

“Even if it scared you? Or hurt you?”

A notion of what was coming formed in Horatio’s head even against his will and he stiffened slightly. “Still most likely.” He said.

Hamlet didn’t say anything else, leaving Horatio the unfortunate task of connecting the final dots. “You want me to help you with the ghost again.” He spoke into existence what Hamlet had been avoiding.

Hamlet finally met his eyes. “Would you?” He said, almost as a challenge, but perhaps more like a plea.

Horatio bit his lip and took a breath. “This is very bad pillowtalk.” He muttered in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. Hamlet didn’t stop staring at him. Finally, Horatio nodded. “I would.”

He expected the affirmation to lighten the load on Hamlet’s shoulders but, if anything, he looked more weary. He didn’t say anything for a second then kissed Horatio on the cheek. “I should probably shower.”

“Probably.” Horatio agreed.

He tucked farther into bed as Hamlet rose, mind already circling back to possession and pain and bullet holes shattering bone. Horatio closed his eyes tight. He proved to himself that he could talk to the dead without being hurt at the church. He just needed to hold onto that. “I’ll be fine.” He mumbled for no reason other than to hear it said out loud. He was sure it would have sounded believable had his voice not been quaking.

* * *

Hamlet didn’t _really_ need to shower. It was...about one in the afternoon, and by his estimate he showered around two in the morning the previous night, which meant that he had plenty of time before he needed to bathe again. No, the shower was purely a means of escaping the conversation and literally cooling off before having to socialize again. A mere ten hours of sleep was not nearly enough to counteract the exhaustion of his little vacation in Europe, and he aimed to spend as much of the weekend unconscious as he possibly could.

Horatio would come with him to France. That was the big question, and it was pleasantly resolved. Due to the rehearsal schedule they’d be pushing the limit of “before winter,” but Hamlet absolutely could not justify detracting more time from Horatio’s play. Thanksgiving break. That was comfortably far in the future, and it gave him plenty of time to get his health together and to prepare himself to do quite literally the worst thing he could imagine. Moreover, it gave him time to work with R&G and Osric to build a case against Claudius. He had seven unread emails from Rosencrantz, all with highly encouraging subject lines such as _“Ballistics report,”_ and _“Preliminary money trail.”_

But he didn’t need to deal with that now. Among the nightmarish information regarding cleansing a corpse, the most important thing he learned on his trip was just how awful it felt to be completely disconnected from Horatio for longer than a day. Worse, Horatio still looked unwell. Like he hadn’t been sleeping or eating either. When Horatio started looking like how Hamlet felt, it was a sign that something very, very wrong had happened; the kind of wrong that could only be dragged about by himself or Ophelia, or possibly the death of a family member. His mother was alive, though, and Hamlet was alright. What that left was Ophelia, which was supported by the peculiar, tacky crucifix Horatio had been wearing the previous night.

Hamlet shut of the water and dried off, throwing the shower cap back on its hook. He let his skin air-dry as he applied the necessary morning skincare products to his face, adding his body lotion once he was suitably dry. He wrapped himself in his bathrobe and rejoined Horatio under the safe softness of his blankets, wrapping his arms tightly around Horatio’s waist.

“That was quick,” Horatio said gently. Hamlet didn’t miss the slight tension in his face.

“I washed my hair last night,” Hamlet said calmly. “That’s the long part.”

“Mhm,” Horatio nodded. There was an awkward pause.

“Why did you have Ophelia’s necklace?” Hamlet asked carefully. He stroked small circles against Horatio’s side, mostly to keep himself relaxed, though he hoped it might help him as well.

“I…” Horatio sighed. “I don’t know. I just needed it,” he said miserably. “I had it when you and Osric came to get me from her dorm two weeks ago and I just kept it. I couldn’t give it back.”

“Why?” Hamlet asked pointedly. It was unlike Horatio to be willing to touch Catholic paraphernalia, let alone steal it.

“Because it hurt her,” Horatio didn’t meet his eyes. “And, I don’t know. It filled me with dread. Like, ghost dread. She didn’t want to go back.”

“‘She?’” Hamlet asked. “Who is ‘she’?”

“Ariche,” Horatio said quietly. He looked very uncomfortable. Like he’d rather talk about anything else in the entire world than this.

“Ophelia’s mother?” Hamlet asked, raising a brow. Horatio didn’t grace him with an explanation beyond a weak nod. “She spoke to you?” Hamlet pressed. Horatio squirmed slightly.

“She, uh. Possessed me. I think,” Horatio said weakly. Hamlet saw his breath quicken as his anxiety rose. He abandoned the small circles and pulled Horatio into a hug, kissing his cheek and holding his head against his chest.

“Do you feel possessed now?” Hamlet asked gently, awkwardly running his fingers through Horatio’s nearly irredeemably tangled hair.

“No,” Horatio whispered against his chest. “I feel okay.”

“Good,” Hamlet said firmly. “If anyone should be possessed by her, it should be Ophelia,” he added. “Or possibly Laertes. I don’t really care which.” Horatio pulled away, meeting his gaze seriously.

“That’s not a good thing to say,” Horatio said with half-hearted sternness.

“I’d rather be possessed by my dad than have you or anyone else be,” Hamlet shrugged. “He’s _my_ dad.” Horatio chewed his lip and looked essentially defeated.

“Fair.” Horatio finally yielded. “But it was awful.”

“Knowing Ophelia she’s probably cripplingly sentimental about that hunk of metal. I’m sure she thought being parted from it was a cruelty and not a kindness,” Hamlet reasoned, raising a well-groomed brow. “Besides, it hurt you. That is not acceptable.”

“That’s...also fair,” Horatio sighed. He glanced at him with an odd mix of caution and coyness. “I didn’t think you cared so much about what hurt me.”

Hamlet blushed slightly and crossed his arms. “_I’m_ the only one who gets to keep you up at night,” he said haughtily.

“Wrong,” Horatio smirked, wrapping his arms around him loosely.

“Oh?” Hamlet turned on him. “If you’re cheating on me I swear I will kill your mistress.”

“Okay, Hera.” Horatio rolled his eyes. “Writing keeps me up.”

“Hera was my drag name,” Hamlet said lightly, soothed now that he was sure that Horatio was not, in fact, cheating on him.

“It would be,” Horatio groaned.

“Also you’re a nerd.” Hamlet added with a wicked grin.

“And yet you missed me,” Horatio shot back, beautiful green eyes bright with amusement. Hamlet uncrossed his arms and pulled himself into Horatio’s lap, kissing him deeply on the lips. He smiled to himself as he felt Horatio’s cock harden and his hand grip his ass.

“You missed me, too,” Hamlet purred. “Or at least, your dick did.”

“I missed you,” Horatio reassured, kissing his neck and cheek. “It was just also impossible to jerk off while I was possessed.”

“I’m surprised you lived,” Hamlet scoffed. “How do you feel about spending the whole day alternating between sleeping and fucking?” He added seductively.

“Tempting, but you need to eat,” Horatio added, though his hold on him didn’t change. “And I need to get some work done. I told my mom I’d swing by tonight.” Hamlet frowned.

“I don’t want to.” Hamlet said, half-commanding and half-whining.

“Then you can stay here,” Horatio challenged. Hamlet glared at him weakly, but found it too tiring to entertain the idea of fighting with him.

“I’ll go with you,” Hamlet sighed. “But I don’t want to and I’m not going to eat anything that has visible oil on it.”

“Noted,” Horatio nodded. “Will you let me cook lunch for you?” He asked, kissing his cheek sweetly.

“What are you going to cook?” Hamlet asked suspiciously. He was too tired to be hungry, and it simultaneously made him pickier and more apathetic about what he ate.

“Anything,” Horatio smiled. “Brownies. Chicken and rice. I’m pretty good at poaching chicken breast in white wine,” he said thoughtfully.

“I don’t eat brownies,” Hamlet said, scrunching his face in distaste. Horatio kissed the bridge of his nose.

“Everyone eats brownies,” he said confidently. “I know you secretly like chocolate.”

“Chocolate is different,” Hamlet protested, resolve fading quickly. He actually sort of wanted baked goods. He was furious with his mother anyways, and his father used to indulge his depression by buying him sweets.

“I’m going to bake brownies and you will eat them,” Horatio stated. “Then you can nap while I work on my play.”

“...Fine.” Hamlet hissed in defeat. “But I won’t like it.”

“Yes you will,” Horatio gave him another kiss. “If you eat the chicken too I might consider sleeping with you again.”

“Excuse me?” Hamlet asked incredulously, awkwardly getting off his lap so Horatio could stand. Horatio seemed immune to his tone. “What do you mean you ‘might consider’ fucking me? That’s not how this relationship works!” He protested as he followed him into the kitchen.

“So you do admit it’s a relationship?” Horatio asked slyly as he opened up the fridge.

“Horatio!” Hamlet said sharply. To no particular success.

“Well?” Horatio asked innocently as he checked the milk. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Hamlet groaned, sitting in one of the chairs. “You’re my boyfriend. Lover. Suitor. Whatever words you fancy.”

“Let’s go with boyfriend,” Horatio smiled smugly.

“Fine,” Hamlet said huffily. “You didn’t have to manipulate that out of me, you know.”

“That’s probably true,” Horatio said as he walked over to Hamlet’s chair. He made a show of pouting as Horatio kissed his cheek. “Consider it a taste of your own medicine.”

“You’re the worst,” Hamlet sulked, though he grabbed Horatio’s hand and made him kiss him properly before he returned to baking, holding him fast for a moment. “I really am shitty as a boyfriend, though,” he added quietly.

“Then be my inamorato,” Horatio said lightly, kissing him again. 

“I can probably do that,” Hamlet said as he went back to baking.


	30. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for reading! We always love comments and kudos, so don't be shy and tell us what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia stages an interrogation. Horatio plays with alley cats. Hamlet eats brownies.

Ophelia tried not to trip backwards as the rugby ball collided with her chest instead of her arms. The orange October sunshine gave just enough warmth so she could still wear jeans and a t-shirt without feeling the need for a sweater. Fortinbras and Voltimand both laughed at what must have been the ridiculous expression spread across her face.

“At least you caught it this time,” Voltimand said as she ran a few steps forward, brushing a rough strand of her hair out of her eye. “You know, we could teach you. Clearly you’re not that much of a hopeless case. Unless you’re afraid of dirt.” She turned to Fortinbras and didn’t drop her voice at all. “She looks delicate. Is she afraid of dirt?”

Fortinbras shook her head as Ophelia answered, “I am most certainly not afraid of dirt and I’m not delicate! I can be a hardass if I want to.” Fortinbras nodded her enthusiastic agreement.

“You’re wearing flowers--” she tried to argue.

“A lot of badass people wear flowers--”

“In your hair! That’s weird. Normal, hardass people don’t do that.” Voltimand laughed as Fortinbras leaned against Ophelia’s shoulder, unfortunately catching a mouthful of hair with a gust of wind.

“Fortinbras thinks they’re pretty,” Ophelia asserted as she turned to her girlfriend. Girlfriend. The word finally sat comfortably familiar in her mind. She wanted so badly to kiss her right now, but didn’t know how she felt about PDA.

“It’s true. I picked them out today.” Fortinbras smiled. They were the last of Ophelia’s delphinium, but that just meant they would have to go to that cute florist’s in a few days.

“She did a wonderful job.” Ophelia took Fortinbras’ hand and smiled at Voltimand. She was doing a lot of smiling today.

“So,” Voltimand sat on the ground in front of the two women. “Not girlfriends?”

“Girlfriends,” Ophelia and Fortinbras said in unison. “It’s new,” Fortinbras explained as Voltimand raised an eyebrow. “Newer.”

“Right. So have you--”

“Nope. Nope, nope. We don’t ask questions like that about our new friends,” she said, high and blushing. “And it’s not like I would tell you anyway, man.”

Voltimand paused awkwardly and gave a sideways glance toOphelia. “Have you gone to her studio yet?”

“Oh,” Fortinbras covered half her face with her hand. “I haven’t. Can I?” she asked towards Ophelia.

“I’d like that,” Ophelia said, simultaneously glad and a little terrified of the prospect. A whole other set of thoughts quickly invaded her distracted head.

“Honestly Fortinbras, what could you possibly think I meant?” Voltimand asked in the second fakest show of innocence Ophelia had ever seen; second only to her own.

“Yeah Fortinbras. What did you think?”

“Uh...oh...I…” Fortinbras let go of Ophelia’s hand and completely hid her face. She sat next to Voltimand in abject misery. “I have no idea what…”

Ophelia plopped down next to her. “It’s okay, You’ll figure it out eventually,” she teased.

“For real,” Voltimand laughed, delighted at the chaos she caused, “How’s the whole dating thing going?”

“It’s good. We went to the Met recently and talked about mummifying chickens as children,” Ophelia said easily.

“I got to geek out about beetle wing dresses,” Fortinbras added.

“Y'all are weird. Did you know that? I don’t think either of you have said something normal all day.” Voltimand continued to laugh. “Don’t you like, I don’t know, go to the movies or get dinner?”

“Sure, I mean, last week…” Ophelia trailed away.

“I think one time we…” Fortinbras also couldn’t think of anything. “Have we really not, like, gone to dinner?”

“We’ve gone to dinner, we just haven’t _gone to dinner_, you know.” Ophelia struggled to explain.

“Was there a difference I didn’t know about, or is that actually another euphemisim for sex?” Voltimand asked.

“No, no difference. No euphemism. Man, why do you, like, turn our ever interaction into the most awkward conversation of my life?” Fortinbras asked, throwing herself back into the grass.

“It’s so not my fault you’re easily embarrassed,” Voltimand dropped her voice and smiled mischievously. “I bet you haven’t even told her about your--”

“Stop!” Fortinbras cried as she covered both of Ophelia’s ears. “It is not a _thing_!”

“It so is. Remember that time with the Svedka and you--”

“No!”

“But Fortinbras, it was so funny--”

“No!” Fortinbras jumped up and scampered away to grab her bag. “And don’t you dare tell her while I’m gone!”

Voltimand laughed quietly and turned to Ophelia. “I wouldn’t actually do that to her, she’s just super cute when she gets flustered.” She smiled and helped Ophelia off the ground. “You really hit the jackpot, you know. She’s...special, in an intense sort of way.”

“Were you two?” Ophelia asked.

“Yeah, for awhile.” Voltimand smiled fondly. “Wish it would have worked out, but hey! Now it’s you’re turn to experience her.” She framed Fortinbras with her hands and Ophelia laughed.

“I’m kinda surprised you still talk to her then. My exes tend to kinda disappear into the void.” Ophelia shrugged sheepishly. That was probably more of a her issue than anything else.

“Yeah, she has you forever. Even if the whole dating thing doesn’t work out.”

“That sounds...really nice,” Ophelia decided.

“Trust me, it is.” Voltimand pulled out a slip of paper from her bag and scrawled her phone number. “Take this and give me a text if you ever want to talk about our resident gamayun.”

“What the hell is a--”

“Are you two talking about me?” Fortinbras asked, flashing a bright smile.

“Always!” Voltimand pat Ophelia shoulders. “I’ve got to run. You two crazy kids have fun mummifying bats or whatever it is you do for fun.” She waved and ran off in the opposite direction of where they were walking. 

“I keep telling you she’s a lot.” Fortinbras smiled affectionately as she took Ophelia’s hand.

“I think she’s fun.” Ophelia stood closer than was practical, but she really wanted to just hold her in her arms and nuzzle into her hair. “Also, I have a lot of questions.”

“I have a lot of answers.”

“What’s your _thing_?” she asked, leaning her head slightly on Fortinbras’ shoulder as they walked.

“Oh no. You don’t need to be burdened by that truth.” She was pretending to be serious, but Ophelia could hear the laughter behind her voice.

“It cannot possibly be that bad. I have a lot of _things. _Some of them are very interesting.” She smirked and watched her girlfriend’s eyes fill with interest.

“Oh?” she asked in a bad approximation of calm.

“I’m more than willing to let you figure them out.”

“Oh?” Fortinbras asked again, this time, very not calm. Not at all.

“Yeah, and if I’m being honest, I want to find out yours too.” Ophelia grinned. “Bet I can figure it out before we get back to my room.”

“You most certainly cannot,” Fortinbras smiled and looked around before dropping her voice again. “But I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh perfect!” Ophelia kissed her cheek. “And if I don’t get it, then I’ll just have to figure it out when we get home. Is that okay?”

“Are you saying we…”

“Yeah, but only if you want.” Ophelia looked deep into her moon-gray eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, Ophelia, I do,” Fortinbras said as a sparkling light rose through her face. “I really, really would.”

“Okay.” They only had a few more blocks before they reached her dorm, but Ophelia was nothing if not competitive. “Are you secretly an exhibitionist?”

“What?!” Fortinbras yelped. “Why is that the first thing you jumped to?!”

“Like, three weeks into meeting me, you insisted on hanging out topless in our very public dressing room. I wouldn’t say it’s that much of a stretch.” Ophelia laughed and leaned against her.

“It’s sorta private,” Fortinbras argued.

“Semi-public, then,” she conceded. “I get the sense my guess was off.”

“Yup, very, keep asking.”

Ophelia thought for a moment about what she knew about her dear, sweet girlfriend. Logically, it probably wasn’t anything too shocking, considering Voltimand brought it up out of the blue. “Do you have a thing for sports stuff?” she asked.

Fortinbras gave her a soft look before pressing a quick kiss to her hair. “Darling, I’m not a repressed, gay lacrosse player. I have standards.”

Darling. Ophelia liked that. She and Hamlet had never been one for cute pet names. The way Fortinbras spoke made her heart want to flutter out of her chest.

“You’re wonderful,” Ophelia hummed as they walked into her building and waited for the elevator.

“You’re wonderful too. I’m glad I met you.” Fortinbras’ voice quieted and all Ophelia could hear was the blood rushing to her ears.

“Do you have a thing for praise?” she whispered once they were safely alone in the elevator.

“Do you?” Fortinbras countered with a roguish grin. “You’re the one blushing.”

Ophelia could feel the heat spreading from her ears, across her cheeks, and into the pit of her stomach. “What?! No!” Fortinbras raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. Just a little.”

Her girlfriend laughed like ringing bells as Ophelia fumbled with her keys. As soon as they were inside, Fortinbras gently, yet firmly, pressed her against the door and kissed her. Ophelia traced her arms down her back and settled them on her hips. She tipped her head back in hopes of deepening the kiss, but Fortinbras pulled away with a small whine. “Aren’t I lucky then,” she said as she ran her thumb over Ophelia’s jaw before kissing her again.

Ophelia pushed up the hem of Fortinbras’ shirt and ran her palms over her soft stomach and sides. Her skin was warm and she wanted nothing more than to press her lips to every inch of it.

“May I take your clothes off?” Fortinbras asked, her heightened breath warm against Ophelia’s shoulder.

“Please,” she groaned as she rolled her hips against Fortinbras’ thigh.

“So eager,” she whispered with a smile as she stripped them both and led Ophelia to her bed. With grace and strength, she pushed her gently to her back and straddled her hips. Fortinbras bent down and peppered Ophelia’s face with kisses before she focused on the tender spot on her throat.

All while she was being kissed, Ophelia allowed her fingers to roam over her girlfriend’s back and shoulders, learning the way her muscles moved against her hands. She gasped as Fortinbras playfully nipped at her skin and returned to kissing her lips.

“You are wonderful,” Fortinbras breathed in between kisses. Ophelia moaned into the back of her hand as Fortinbras kissed along her collarbone and brushed her thumb against her nipple. “And you make the prettiest sounds.” Her voice rang high like chimes as she continued to shower Ophelia with attention.

Ophelia very rarely found herself in the position of being adored, rather than doing the adoring. The feelings buzzed along under her skin and it was so much, and yet, not enough. With fumbling hands, she tried to pull Fortinbras closer, but was met with a sweet laugh and a kiss to her navel.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” she asked, a false show of innocence playing across her eyes.

“Please,” Ophelia breathed, the words getting lost on her tongue. “I just...I want…”

“Can you use your words, darling?” Fortinbras asked as she ran her hands over the top of Ophelia’s thighs.

“Please touch me. Please, Fortinbras,” she begged, delighted when she earned herself a kiss to the shell of her ear. 

Fortinbras was quick to act, kissing a line down Ophelia’s chest and stomach before setting in between her legs. She kissed the inside of her thighs and rubbed small circles with the pad of her thumb.

Ophelia sighed into her hands as Fortinbras kissed her clit. Emboldened by the affirmation, she began to lick and suck in earnest. Ophelia threw her head back and moaned. Neighbors be damned, it’s not like they were overly considerate anyway.

She could feel Fortinbras smile as she pressed one finger inside of her, then another. Her free hand traced lazy circles of Ophelia’s hip.

“Oh, please,” Ophelia babbled nonsensically. “More, _please_.”

Fortinbras was more than happy to comply. She quickened her pace and curled her fingers against the sweet spot deep in her vagina. Ophelia groaned and thread her fingers through Fortinbras’ hair, pushing it away from her forehead. For a moment, their eyes met and Ophelia almost lost herself.

Fortinbras added another finger and Ophelia felt a coil of warmth start to build in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t know if...I think I’m…” she sighed. Fortinbras grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Moments later rode through her orgasm.

Fortinbras wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and kissed Ophelia as she settled next to her again. She cupped her cheek with one and and wrapped the other around her shoulders. Ophelia pulled her closer.

“Please, let me…” she whispered.

“Not tonight,” Fortinbras answered, only pulling as far away as was necessary. Her eyes were half-lidded and a sweet blush spread across her cheeks. “Let me take care of you tonight?” She kissed Ophelia’s forehead and the bridge of her nose.

She hummed her assent and snuggled closer to Fortinbras, never wanting to break contact. Fortinbras was warm and soft as Ophelia wrapped her arms around her waist. They kissed and cuddled until Ophelia could only ever remember what warmth felt like.

* * *

“I don’t understand why we could just have had Osric drive us.” Hamlet muttered as Horatio guided him through Rosebank. His hair was still slightly damp from the ferry, making it stick up at odd angles in the back, though Horatio wasn’t about to point that out. It was far too cute and he didn’t want Hamlet to fix it quite yet.

“I told you,” Horatio said, “we want to make a good impression on my mom and you rolling up in your private limo will definitely not accomplish that.”

Hamlet crossed his arms huffily. “She already knows I’m rich, right? Why is it a problem?”

“She knows you’re rich. She doesn’t know you’re East Egg rich.” Horatio paused at the opening to an crate-lined alley and grinned. “Hold that thought.”

“What are you doing?” Hamlet asked as he trailed behind Horatio.

Horatio hushed him before bending down and peering beneath one of the overturned crates. He grinned and crouched down. “And…” he lunged forward, grabbing the apathetic cat around his middle, “gotcha!” Standing up, Horatio displayed the fat gray beast proudly. “Hamlet, I’d like you to meet Rockefeller.”

Hamlet stepped back, looking disgusted. “Horatio, put that back. You don’t know where it’s been.”

“But he’s so cute!” Horatio insisted. “Look, he’s just a little bastard man.”

When it became clear that Horatio was not going to let the cat go, Hamlet took a reluctant step forward and patted Rockefeller’s head with the very tips of his fingers.

Horatio smiled encouragingly. “See, he’s good.”

“He’s dirty.” Hamlet complained, wiping his fingers on his pants.

“He’s a street cat.” Horatio rested his chin on top of Rockefeller’s head. “Quick, ask me why he’s called Rockefeller?”

“No.”

“Please.”

Hamlet sighed. “Fine. Why is he called Rockefeller?”

“Because he’s a fat cat!” Horatio exclaimed gleefully. As if in response to the bad joke, Rockefeller kicked him in the stomach and squirmed out of his hands. Horatio dove forward to catch him but ended up with empty hands. “Shit.” He muttered. He sat on the ground for a moment before glancing up to Hamlet. “Bet I can find another one.”

“Isn’t your mom expecting us?” Hamlet said quickly, arms crossed tight across his chest.

Horatio frowned but, after giving the alley a once over and seeing no other obvious signs of cats, stood. “Right, this way.”

As they reached the main restaurant, he directed Hamlet to loop around the back. “Sorry,” he said while holding the door open to the dim, pungent back entrance way, “talking with my mom is one thing, but I’m not ready to let my aunts and uncles loose on you yet?”

“Are they in the restaurant?” Hamlet asked as he held his nose.

“Always.” Horatio groaned. “But, as I said, not going to deal with that tonight. All we have to deal with is Mom. And possibly my cousin but, don’t worry, she’ll like you.”

“She will?” Hamlet asked doubtfully as they climbed up to the apartment.

“Yup.” Horatio lied. Well, not fully lied. She would _pretend _to like Hamlet for Horatio’s sake.

Showing Hamlet into his apartment was less anxiety inducing than it had been sophomore year, though barely so. Even if he knew Hamlet’s wealth and taste was excessive, it was hard not to be embarrassed of the cramped, crowded space. Still, he took Hamlet’s coat and led him over to the couch. “So, I’ll grab my mom. She’s probably still down in the kitchen.”

“Alright.” Hamlet said. Now that he wasn’t being distracted by grubby cats and the overpowering stench of garlic, he seemed almost nervous.

Horatio smiled with false confidence and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, she’s no different than she was the last time you met her.” Though, that may be what Hamlet was worried about. “Just remember: ‘bastard’ means ‘nice kid,’ ‘asshole’ means ‘you’re great,’ and ‘fuck off’ means she loves you. Be right back.”

Horatio smiled and scampered out of the apartment. It was relatively easy to find his mom, standing in one corner of the kitchen, searing fish with one hand while using the other to beat a towel in the direction of some poor hapless waiter. With ease, he stepped in between them, allowing the man to escape through the restaurant doors.

His mom’s anger broke instantly. “Horatio!” She said with delight. She pulled him into one of her overly tight hugs and patted his hair. “How are you doing? I haven’t heard from you in days.”

“I called you last night.” Horatio protested as he attempted to politely worm his way out of his mom’s iron grip.

“Yes but you didn’t call me for five days before that and I get worried when I don’t hear from you in that long. Usually I hear from you at least every two days, if only to complain about schoolwork or how much you want to fuck Hamlet.”

“Ma.” Horatio squeaked, glancing around the kitchen. Thankfully, no one seemed to have heard her very public announcement or else, the staff was too terrified of the great and terrible Caterina di Levanti to acknowledge it. Horatio took a deep breath. “Okay so. Hamlet is upstairs.”

“Oh, he came after all?” As his mom spoke, her nose crinkled with clear distaste.

“Yes.” Horatio said. “Which means that we need to go over some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” His mom asked in bewilderment. “Why would I need those? I am the perfect picture of respectful and proper parenting.”

Horatio fixed her with a truly exhausted stare and his mom laughed as she ruffled his curly hair into a birds nest. “I almost managed it with a straight face. Fine, fine, ground rules. Let me guess, no scaring him, no threatening him, no calling him the manipulative little bitch he is.”

“All of that, yes.” Horatio said firmly. “Also, he’s not a manipulative bitch, he’s my boyfriend.”

His mom’s eyebrows shot up. “So he’s admitted it then?”

“Yes. No.” Horatio floundered for a moment. “It’s complicated. He’s my inamorato in writing, boyfriend in theory.”

“Hm.” His mom flipped the fish in its pan without looking back. “Not gonna lie, Horatio, that’s kinda weird.”

Horatio shrugged with a small smile. “I’m kinda weird.”

“You’re the weirdest fucking kid I’ve ever met.” His mom said affectionately. She flipped the pan one more time, caught an unsuspecting kitchen staff by the shoulder, and thrust the handle into his hand. “Add some butter and dill to that.” She instructed. “And don’t you dare let it burn. I’ll know.” She leaned in close to the man and narrowed her eyes. “I always know.”

“Anyway,” his mom smiled as she turned away, leaving the poor guy to scramble through the remainder of the meal prep, “let’s go see Hamlet Kockengart.”

“Kierkegaard.” Horatio corrected.

“Whatever.” His mom waved him off as she removed her apron. “All I know is that you’re not allowed to take his name.”

Horatio rolled his eyes but remained silent on the manner. He followed his mom to the apartment entrance and stopped her just short of entering. “Remember: he’ll take anything you say as fact, he’s just come off the fourth worst week of his life so be gentle, and please for the love of God don’t mention his weight.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” His mom snapped.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll hit up confession on way home.” Horatio sighed. “Just promise me?”

“I promise.” His mom intoned.

“Good.” Horatio nodded. He went to open the door and paused again. “Also he won’t eat anything with olive oil.”

“What?!” His mom said way too loudly. The sound echoed through the enclosed hall, making Horatio wince. He held a hand to his lips, desperate to quiet his mom’s incoming tirade, but she was already off. “What am I supposed to cook without olive oil in it? What, does he want fucking beets? A Goddamn meatloaf? What do I look like, a Cracker Barrel!? He’s sitting above an Italian restaurant being served by two of the best Italian-American cooks in the city and he wants to snack on a head of lettuce like some kind of rabbit!”

“Ma, please calm down.” Horatio begged. “This isn’t a big deal. Really. Just give him a salad or something and let it go.”

“But-”

“Please.”

His mom sighed like some kind of swooning Victorian woman getting ready to hit the fainting couch but finally relented. Honestly, Horatio swore if Hamlet and his mom could escape their own respective melodramas for longer than two seconds, they might be able to see they were very similar.

“Fine.” His mom said. “But only because I adore you and want you to be happy. And also because I want that Pillsbury Dough Boy-looking Dutch bastard out of my house.”

“Danish.” Horatio summoned his best smile and let them in. “Hamlet,” he moved to stand beside the other man, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, “you remember my mother?”

Hamlet charm was on display in an instant as he stood and extended a hand. “Ms. di Levanti.” He said smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

His mom glared at the hand before taking it. “Pleasure to see you too. Are you aware that you made my son completely and utterly miserable with your little disappearing act last week?”

It had only been five seconds and Horatio was already regretting bringing Hamlet home, meeting Hamlet to begin with, and the entirety of events leading up to his own birth. He cleared his throat loudly as Hamlet’s glare flashed poisonous. “We’ve resolved that matter entirely so, uh, no need to go on about it.”

“Yup,” Hamlet interjected. He stood and looped his arm through Horatio’s, offering his mom the most translucently sweet smile he had ever seen. “Totally resolved. In fact, we’ve even been discussing Horatio coming with me to Paris over Thanksgiving break.”

Horatio stared at Hamlet as if the other had shot him.

His mom’s demeanor grew tumultuous in an instant. “Is that so-”

“Ma,” Horatio said suddenly, “have you told Hamlet any baby stories yet? I’m sure he’d love to hear them.” It was a risky move. On the one hand, baby stories always entertained and delighted his mom and usually distracted her from anger too. On the other hand...baby stories.

It did the trick. His mom’s stony complexion was cracked by a beaming smile as she clasped her hands in front of her. “I haven’t!” She directed her attention to a relieved Hamlet. “Horatio was the cutest baby on the entire earth.” She said with the pride of an artist describing her latest sculpture. “He was so unbelievably fat he had rolls of it running down his arms and he was born with a full head of hair, like a little puff cloud.” She paused to think. “I definitely have photos somewhere. Wait one moment.”

As Horatio sank onto the couch, mentally preparing himself for the next hour and a half of photo albums and incriminating details Hamlet could undoubtedly use against him one, his mom dug through a nearby drawer. While she was distracted, Hamlet attempted to discreetly sit beside Horatio but was quickly pushed aside as his mom planted herself between them.

“Now this one,” she began, pointing at a picture of five-year-old Horatio weilding a plastic sword and posing for the camera, “was taken right before Horatio lost his front tooth running into a doorknob.”

Horatio hid his face in his hands and prayed for dinnertime.

* * *

“Your mother hates me,” Hamlet sulked as they made it to the agreed-upon pick up point for Osric, nearly three blocks from Caterina’s apartment.

“No,” Horatio said, though Hamlet could sense the hesitation. “She’s just...intense. Like you.”

“We’re nothing alike,” Hamlet scoffed. “I’m pretty sure she spent the entire evening barely resisting the urge to call the mafia on me or declare that House Montague simply won’t allow their eldest son to be wedded to a Capulet.”

“I don’t think she’s read Shakespeare,” Horatio said quietly. It didn’t help. Hamlet was relieved when the headlights of Osric’s car (not a limousine, just a Porsche) pulled over.

“It doesn’t matter what she has or hasn’t read,” Hamlet huffed as he climbed in. “The sentiment is the same.”

“Am I driving you home, sir?” Osric asked, rolling down the glass divider.

“Yes,” Hamlet said, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He was hell-bent on making his discomfort with Horatio’s mother as clear as possible, in the hopes of never having to endure it again. Or, if he did have to, insuring that he would be better protected than just a cheap escape via embarrassing baby stories.

“Hamlet,” Horatio said gently after a minute of stiff quiet. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’ll be whatever I want,” Hamlet said firmly, looking out the window. He hated mothers. Or rather, they hated him, and he hated people who hated him.

“She’ll warm up to you,” Horatio said gently. “She just needs to get to know you.”

Hamlet scowled at rough stretch of city that they drove through, opting for judging random strangers instead of looking at Horatio. If he did, his resolve would break and he’d be inviting plans for another disastrous dinner with Caterina, possibly even with the rest of the family. Hating strangers was highly preferable.

As always with New York, it took ages to get back to Manhattan. Truth be told, Hamlet was learning very quickly that literally nothing good ever came from leaving his apartment, and he wondered to himself just how hard it would be to insure that he wouldn’t have to for the next month and a half, save perhaps for rehearsals.

Horatio followed him up to the apartment, and Hamlet threw himself into the couch after kicking off his shoes, hugging one of the overstuffed pillows tightly. Horatio sat beside him and stroked his head, which was nice. It also made it very challenging to keep being angry with him.

“I’m still mad,” Hamlet muttered as he shifted so his head was in Horatio’s lap.

“Okay,” Horatio said comfortably. “Do you want a brownie?” He asked. Hamlet rolled onto his back and looked up at him with disbelief.

“No, I do not want a brownie,” Hamlet said haughtily. “I just told you I’m angry with you.”

“Okay, let me rephrase,” Horatio nodded. “You’re going to eat a brownie.”

“Excuse me?” Hamlet asked, taken aback as Horatio shrugged him off and wandered into the kitchen, returning with two plates, each containing one of the gooey carbohydrate nightmares that Horatio baked earlier that morning.

“Sugar is bad for me,” Hamlet said defensively as a plate was shoved in his hands.

“Alcohol is sugar,” Horatio said, raising a brow. “And I know you like alcohol.”

“That’s different,” Hamlet scowled. “I’m allowed to drink alcohol.”

“Socially,” Horatio corrected. “I don’t think your crazy diet plan covers drowning in it.”

Hamlet and Horatio stared each other down for a moment, both suddenly very uncomfortable. Hamlet pulled his legs up onto the couch and curled in on himself slightly.

“That was...harsh,” Horatio said apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Hamlet said, staring intently at the baked good. He picked a piece off of the corner and ate it, hating that it tasted good. Horatio was already halfway through his own. Hesitantly, he took a real bite of it. It was equal parts the best and worst thing he’d ever tasted.

“Is it good?” Horatio asked carefully. Hamlet sighed.

“It’s awful,” Hamlet said. “I love it.” Horatio gave him the most self-satisfied grin he’d ever seen.

“The secret is an extra egg yoke, it makes it-”

“If you want me to finish this, it is paramount that you don’t tell me anything about what’s in it,” Hamlet cut him off. Horatio seemed more than happy to oblige.

The brownie was pretty great. Not that he’d tell Horatio that and invite him to tell him exactly how much butter and sugar went into the thing. It was the last thing he needed, given how tired and anxious he was from meeting Caterina again. Part of him, foolishly, had hoped time might have changed her attitude towards him, or that his new status as Horatio’s inamorato might, but it seemed not to. He abandoned Horatio in the bedroom in favor of showering and cleaning himself up. Personal grooming was always a good and safe self-soothing mechanism.

He wanted Caterina to like him. _That_ was the issue. He couldn’t possibly have cared less about Polonius’ views on him while he was screwing Laertes or dating Ophelia, but Horatio and Caterina were different. Clearly he’d managed to survive the break-ups with both of the Cortez twins, but he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that, should Horatio leave, he would either end up dead or institutionalized. He didn’t want another relationship after this one. This would be the last. Unfortunately, that was dependent upon being an actual, legitimately good boyfriend. Inamorato. Whatever. And that meant parental approval and support, since Horatio was so close with his crazy family.

As he shut off the water, it occurred to him that Caterina was the first parent he was formally introduced to as a partner. Polonius knew of him before he started dating Ophelia, and it left them on an irredeemably sour note. More importantly, even Ophelia knew better than to invite him home for family dinners where Laertes might be present. Nothing says disaster quite like a dinner date with your girlfriend, your ex who is also her brother, and their father. And grandmother, not that he’d ever met her.

He shivered as he stepped out of the shower. The thermostat seemed to have kicked it while he was in France, and now there were cold spots everywhere. He wrapped himself in a towel, freezing in place as he saw that, despite the steam from the shower, there were slivers of frost on the edges of the mirror. Even a broken thermostat wouldn’t do that kind of damage. His pulse kicked up a few notches, and he did his best to keep his eyes trained on the corner of the mirror. His breath rose in the frigid air like smoke as his breathing grew quick.

“It’s fine,” he whispered to himself shakily. “It’s fine. You’re sleep-deprived and your probably just hallucinating again.” He forced his vision up, slowly staring at the reflection of himself in the crystalline glass inch by inch. So far it was only his own body, which was distressing in its own way. Horatio’s brownies would quickly resolve that, however.

He shuddered as he met his own dark gaze. He was alone in the reflection. He took an uneasy breath and proceeded to brush his teeth and begin his evening skincare routine, adding to it some additional moisture support in the hopes of resolving the bags under his eyes. Still alone, he noted as he refused to take his eyes off the mirror.

He placed all of his moisturizers back in their drawer, relaxed now that fifteen minutes had gone by without any change to the bathroom. He glanced back up to the mirror, reaching for the light, and gasped. There was another behind him, vaguely like his father in the sense that the figure was tall and blond, and wore the same kinds of clothes that his dad wore in life. But this...thing, for lack of a better term, was gaunt; decayed. The skin was gray and sunken, and its hair lay lifelessly over its hollow white eyes. Blackness crept along the extremities and the high-points of its face, as if it was frostbitten and rotting. Hamlet found he was unable to move or look away, his fingers still barely an inch from the lightswitch. His heart raced so fast that he could feel it skipping beats, and he could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest with his uneven breaths. He flexed a finger, just to be sure he could.

He waited tensely, hoping that maybe if he blinked he’d find himself alone and he could write this up as an upsetting yet harmless encounter with his own demented psyche or, at worst, the gjenganger. So he blinked.

“Horatio!” He screamed as he felt a freezing hand on his shoulder. He wrenched away from the touch, though he found he couldn’t shake it. The unlocked door flew open.

“What’s wrong?” Horatio asked, looking anxiously around the small room. Hamlet, feeling the hand leave his shoulder, pushed past Horatio so that he could hide behind him.

“He was here again,” Hamlet said between shaky breaths. “He--my shoulder. He grabbed my shoulder.”

“Let me see,” Horatio said firmly, turning around to face him. Hamlet didn’t want to be looked at. He just wanted to climb into bed. Nonetheless, he turned to one side and let Horatio get a look at his shoulder. When he touched it, his hands were so warm they almost hurt.

“It didn’t hurt as much as the time he touched my face,” Hamlet said quietly.

“There’s no mark,” Horatio said gently, moving his hand from his shoulder to his cheek. “But it does feel really cold.”

“It is really cold,” Hamlet said with an exhausted nod. “The mirror was frozen, too.” He watched carefully as Horatio glanced towards the bathroom mirror, which was now completely normal. Of course it would be.

“Are you alright?” Horatio asked as he turned back to him, green eyes filled with a mix of concern and lingering panic.

“No,” Hamlet said stiffly. “It was awful. It...he looked like he was, uh,” Hamlet cringed as he spoke. “Rotting. Or decaying. Worse than before.” Horatio nodded and followed him into the bedroom, thankfully closing the bathroom door behind him. Hamlet threw the towel off and climbed into bed naked. It wasn’t like he needed decency around Horatio anymore.

“Will it be safe for us to wait until November?” Horatio asked as he stripped off his outside clothes and got into bed beside him. Hamlet immediately clung to him for warmth and safety.

“I don’t know,” Hamlet admitted, pressing his face against Horatio’s neck. “It has to be.”

“We could leave earlier,” Horatio offered.

“No, we’re already behind on your play,” Hamlet said firmly, pulling away to look him in the eyes. “My little escapade to Italy already put us way behind schedule, and I’m not going to let that happen again.” This seemed to give Horatio pause. He was right, after all. They didn’t exactly have a flexible schedule.

“Yes,” Horatio sighed. “But if something goes...wrong...with him, we don’t know what could happen,” he added tensely.

“Yorick had his island blessed,” Hamlet said quietly, pressing himself back against Horatio. “Your family knows a priest, right? We could, I don’t know. Get the apartment sanctified.”

“You’re really suggesting that we go ask a priest to purify the apartment that we have religiously forbidden sex in?” Horatio asked, trying for humor and lightness.

“Yup,” Hamlet said seriously.

“For real?” Horatio asked.

“Absolutely,” Hamlet nodded. “We could also try salt circles or something. I think we read about those at some point.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a real thing,” Horatio said skeptically. “I think you saw that in Supernatural.”

“I would never watch that,” Hamlet said defensively. He absolutely had. He’d seen the first three seasons before he got so self-conscious he forced himself to stop.

“You do realize that I can see your netflix history whenever you make me decide what we watch, right?” Horatio said affectionately, kissing his forehead. “Admit that you enjoy absolute garbage television.”

“Never,” Hamlet said firmly, though he smiled slightly. He let himself be rolled onto his back and kissed deeply, knotting his fingers in Horatio’s curly hair. He pulled away as he felt one of Horatio’s hands slide low along his body. Horatio stopped as the kiss was broken.

“Are you alright?” Horatio asked. Hamlet kissed him quickly on the cheek.

“I think so,” Hamlet said half-heartedly. “Can we just, you know,” Hamlet paused, taking stock of the already aroused states of both their bodies. This was unlike him. “Can we just cuddle tonight?” He asked, flushing with embarrassment at his own words. Horatio looked about as shocked as he felt, though it quickly disappeared into a smile.

“Yeah,” Horatio said as he shifted positions so that he was back by his side, pulling him close against his chest. He didn’t seem irritated or upset, but Hamlet still felt a little guilty. Hamlet took one of his hands and kissed it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Horatio kissed him lightly on the cheek and on his neck.

“Don’t be,” Horatio said gently, holding him a little tighter. Hamlet relaxed once he was sure Horatio wasn’t angry at him for not putting out. It was always a forbidden option in his other relationships with men.

“Do you have to go anywhere tomorrow?” Hamlet asked after a pause.

“I don’t think so,” Horatio said. “We don’t have rehearsal until Monday.”

“Good,” Hamlet said, pulling the comforter higher up over them both. “Let’s do absolutely nothing and make Osric bring us chai lattes.”

“I thought you didn’t like sugary drinks,” Horatio said quietly, though he could hear the smile in his voice.

“I got used to it with Yorick,” Hamlet said dismissively. “Yes or no?”

“Sure,” Horatio said. Hamlet could feel him press his face into his hair. He closed his eyes and let himself be soothed by the warmth and closeness. He pulled Horatio’s arms tighter around himself, kissing his hands again before settling himself more comfortably against the pillows. For once he was completely thrilled to have utterly no plans.


	31. Dies Irae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia snaps. Horatio says the words. Hamlet feels safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for such fluctuations in posting; things get busy and it's hard to keep a rigid schedule. But, here we are!

The morning was warm and soft, but ended far too quickly when Fortinbras had to go to morning practice. Truthfully, Ophelia didn’t remember much because it was 5:30 in the goddamned morning. What she did remember was Fortinbras’ kisses to her forehead and lips. They sang her away into another few hours of peaceful slumber.

But that was where the peace ended because Ophelia decided she needed to reorganize her room; a daunting task, even when she managed to keep it her version of neat. She popped in her headphones, switched over to her Marina playlist, and got to work.

First thing’s first, she changed her sheets and remade her bed. Then, she got her laundry situation kinda-sorta-mostly figured out before she moved on to sweeping and vacuuming. The very last thing was her dreaded desk. It wasn’t her fault that when she was working she had a tendency to go everywhere. Or rather, it totally was, but now the only reason it was an issue was Fortinbras would be around more frequently. After sorting through each and every sticky note, organizing them in piles by their project and relevance, she finally felt the courage to tackle her desk top.

She picked up the hand towel that she evidently had left at Hamlet’s penthouse only to find that she had never seen it before in her life. That was odd. Ophelia shrugged and shook it out so she could properly fold it, but she was distracted by the sound of metal clattering to the floor. Oh. That was why.

Ophelia delicately grabbed the crucifix by its chain and hung it off her fingers. It spun and twisted as it scattered golden light across the room. She’d thought about this moment for the past week, but none of the emotions she thought she was supposed to have came to her. Instead, she felt strangely hollow and wanted nothing more than to bury her face in Fortinbras’ hair and go to sleep. For all she knew, this was just some tragic nightmare where the real horror was that she hadn’t actually cleaned any of her room.

She squeezed her eyes closed and when she opened them, the crucifix was still spinning in her hand. “Okay then,” Ophelia sighed “Is Fortinbras right? Do you have anything to say for yourself?” The chain pulsed a gentle warmth against her hand. “Well, I trust her. If she says you possessed Horatio, then you probably did.” She sat on the edge of her bed and tried to fix her hair with her free hand. “He’s too dumb and sweet to come up with a joke like that.” She was supposed to be smart enough to see through lies. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”

There was silence. It wasn’t like Ophelia expected an answer. There would just be silence for now and forever because she was dead and she wasn’t coming back. Except she could. That voice gnawed at the back of Ophelia’s head. Her mom could come back. She already had. Instead of comfort, the thought brought only white hot rage.

“Well, at least we can figure out what to do next,” Ophelia muttered as she slipped the necklace over her head. At first, it was just gently warm like it was before, pulsing as if it too had a heartbeat, but it didn’t. It was a necklace. Then, she could feel it getting hotter until she couldn’t bear to have it touching her skin anymore. She tore it off and threw it into her pillows.

“You don’t get to make that decision anymore,” Ophelia said sternly, as if she were talking to a toddler. “You’re stuck with me now whether you like it or not.” She turned her head away and waited for a response that could never come. Except it could, and that was the problem. She could answer and she was choosing not to. That was the problem.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Ophelia snapped. “What the hell was I thinking? I threw away my best friendship to get you back and you don’t even want me? I was so worried about you being stuck alone and in the cold or whatever because I didn’t want that to happen again. But no, you were just fine because you possessed my best friend, probably against his will, when you could have, I don’t know, possessed me or Laertes instead.”

Ophelia wiped her eyes even though she wasn’t crying. It felt like she should be, but that feathered viper that was clawing her way along her spine only bared her fangs and hissed. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I guess I don’t know anything, do I? I don’t know how to make amends with Hamlet, I don’t know how to apologize to Horatio, and I don’t even know who my goddamned mother is.” She wanted so desperately to grab the crucifix and throw it against a wall, but she didn’t want to feel the heat again, or worse, the cold.

“I don’t know. Answer me this. What happened to the mom I knew when I was a kid?” Ophelia yelled. “ She taught us to respect people’s boundaries.  She taught us to ask for help when we needed it.  She  taught us to never leave each other behind.” Ophelia laughed; a lifeless, hollow thing that dripped with venom. “Ever! That was  her one rule. ‘Don’t leave family behind.’ What happened to her?!”

Ophelia got up and paced around her room like a lion lashing in her cage. “You promised! You promised we would never have to do this-any of this- alone. And guess what! Dad is doing his best, but it hurts him too. Did you ever think of that? We couldn’t even talk about what happened for years and now you spring the entire collective Cortez family trauma on a kid you don’t even know? Because that’s totally fair and just! We would have given anything!  Anything , to be able to hear your voice again; to be able to actually say goodbye, but no! You took that from us too because you couldn’t handle it!”

It didn’t feel good to yell at her mom, and yet it really did. Finally, she could say the things that wanted to talk about with her dad or Laertes that would have made them upset. And now no one could yell back and no one could cry. “You could have come with us. You should have come with us.”

Ophelia knew all the reasons everyone in her life had given her for why her mom didn’t go with them to Mexico City and she could hear a thousand more ringing about on the inside of that cross. And they were right. There were millions of good reasons why she couldn’t go back, but that didn’t mean she had to stay either. Ophelia thought her mom would have had so much to fight for.

“It’s not your fault you died,” she whispered, more to herself than to her mom. “It is your fault that you didn’t try to save yourself.” The rage ticked back again, hotter and stronger than ever. God. This needed to end. This needed to end soon. “Did you see what happened to us?” she yelled. “This you watch all those years of Laertes and I being seperated and Dad being miserable? What did you think? Is this the family you’re supposed to be proud of!?” Ophelia screamed and it felt good. Blood rushed to her head and she thought she might faint. “Are you happy that you left us with  this ?!”

Ophelia couldn’t help it anymore. She scrambled on her knees to the cross and clasped it between both her hands. She held it up to the light and waited for something, anything, to answer. Even if it hurt her again, then she knew it was real and none of this had been dreamt up by her fucked up imagination.

Nothing happened. No one answered.

The metal didn’t even have a discernible temperature anymore. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine. I know where to take you and we can all just be done with this and I can stop yelling at a fucking piece of jewelry!”

Ophelia grabbed her travel bag with her car keys and sent a quick text to Laertes:  Taking the car. Will be back eventually.  Then, she turned her phone off. Now, no one could talk to her and she wouldn’t have to worry about needing an answer. She could be alone with her mom one last time.

She turned the ignition and the car roared to life. “Hear that, Mom? We’re going home.”

* * *

Pancakes and bacon for breakfast allowed him the freedom to simultaneously cook, float over to sit beside Hamlet, who was curled under a blanket on the couch, and slowly but surely chew his mom out via text for the disaster that was dinner. Of course, compared to what he had feared might happen, the night had been a complete success but still, it had upset Hamlet and that wasn’t acceptable. In his wildest ideals, this odd relationship they’d established would last a long, long time and Horatio couldn’t have his mom starting fights every time Hamlet stepped foot on Staten Island.

Horatio smiled kindly as he pulled the last pancake from the griddle and put it on a plate. “Syrup?” He asked Hamlet.

“Absolutely not.” Hamlet answered resolutely.

Horatio dribbled a bit over his pancakes and carried the plate over, setting it in front of Hamlet. His nose crinkled in distaste as he looked over the meal. “I said no syrup.” Hamlet protested half-heartedly as he picked up a piece of bacon.

“Didn’t hear you.” Horatio shrugged. Rather than taking his usual seat across from the table, Horatio sat beside Hamlet, pressing their legs together under the table. Since last night, his desire to be beside him at all times had become concerningly strong and it once again reminded him of the relative danger Hamlet was always in. It seemed like whenever Horatio turned his back, after all, Hamlet was under attack by some greater force, whether otherworldly or worldly or internal. So naturally the solution was just...not to turn his back for a while. It was manageable. And, as an added bonus, as long as he stayed near him, Hamlet seemed at least reluctantly receptive to Horatio bullying him into self-care.

It was Sunday, which was normally one of Horatio’s catch-up days. Today, however, he was perfectly content to ignore school work and scheduling. He could make time for all that on Monday. Plus, apparently, time to call his neighborhood priest to come bless a gay man’s penthouse because that’s where his life was at right now.

Horatio checked his phone quickly and read his mom’s latest text.

10:29 AM

_ You can tell him im sorry i was bitchy i didn’t know his mom was literally the AntiChrist. But you’re still not allowed to take his name. _

He sighed in relief and stowed the phone. So that was one issue in his life resolved. One of many, but one nonetheless. “So what did you want to do today?” He asked as he redirected his attention towards Hamlet, who was in the process of lifting the top of his pancake pile to check if Horatio had hidden more syrup beneath. Horatio smiled fondly. “Is this a stay in bed and read kind of do-nothing-day or a sit on the couch and watch bad Netflix kind of do-nothing-day?”

Hamlet took a tiny bite of the pancake. “It’s a let me lie on top of you and sleep while you read kind of do-nothing-day.” He said.

“Perfect. My favorite.” Horatio said enthusiastically, drawing an amused smile from Hamlet. Maybe with a full day of sleep the bags under Hamlet’s eyes would stop looking like full luggage and more like carry ons. 

True to his word, Hamlet made poor Osric get them both lattes and, when both Hamlet and Osric shot down his offers to pay, Horatio made him take left-over pancakes. From there, the late morning dissolved into a downy timelessness, with Hamlet pressed into the crook of Horatio’s body like a missing puzzle piece. Once settled on the bed, Hamlet was asleep almost immediately, and though Horatio told himself that he would read, that mission was quickly abandoned in favor of thinking.

As usual, the initial course of his meandering mind was to take stock of his lead weighted guilts. Ophelia in particular sprang to mind, sticky strings of unsureness lacing in conjunction to the name. But Horatio was thankfully pulled away by the physical as Hamlet pushed back against him in his sleep, letting him focus on the points of bone-deep warmth which seemed to spread from wherever their skin touched and the way Hamlet’s breaths whistled between his teeth.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when Hamlet woke, jostling Horatio from his own hazy eyed half-awareness in the process.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, “are you awake?”

“Barely.” Horatio said, not bothering to sit up in bed. They’d just be back down in a few minutes anyways. “Something wrong?” He asked, thinking, for a brief second, that Hamlet may have seen his dad again.

“No,” Hamlet said, talking quietly as if he were afraid to jinx it. Horatio hummed, still not fully roused, and began to trace nonsensical circles across Hamlet’s chest. “You weren’t reading?” Hamlet asked after a moment.

Horatio lazily followed his gaze to the book still sitting on the side table. “I got distracted.” He said.

“By?”

“You.”

Hamlet snorted. “I was asleep.” He said softly. He flipped over to face Horatio, giving him a full view of dark eyes, clever even in their post-sleep mistiness. “How interesting could I be?”

Horatio hummed once more and kissed him on the nose, laughing slightly as the motion made Hamlet go cross-eyed. “There’s a lot to you. It’s a full-time job to observe it all.”

Hamlet rolled his eyes even though he was smiling. “You’re still trying to wake up.” He said.

“How can you tell?”

“Because you’re acting even dumber than usual.”

“Hey,” Horatio protested, “I’m plenty smart.”

“You lack common sense.” Hamlet said. He shifted forward in bed so that Horatio could more properly hug him.

“You’re the one with good memory.” Horatio said with a put-on pouty-ness. “And the charisma and the boldness and the fantastic hair and the best dick. You’ve got to leave me something.”

Hamlet made a small show of thinking it through. “You can be the muscle.” He eventually decided.

Horatio sighed. “I know that just means that you’ll want me to carry your bag for you everywhere.”

“Yes,” Hamlet brushed some stray hair from his face, “but you already do that.”

“I do.” Horatio said calmly. He smirked. “I’ll be the good cook.”

“Listen, as soon as this week is over, I’m back to my normal diet.” Hamlet said with a frown.

“Liar.” Horatio teased. “Admit it, I’ve seduced you with my perfect brownies.”

“Never.” Hamlet shoved him away only to tug him back five seconds later when the lack of constant body heat became too much to bear. This apparently wasn’t the day for one of their passive aggressive arguments, so Horatio allowed himself to press his face into Hamlet’s hair.

There was silence for a moment, fueled by both mutual exhaustion and mutual content, then Hamlet gestured towards the nightstand. “So, what are you reading?” He asked.

“ Tender is The Night. ”

“Again?”

Horatio relished the pointless conversation after so many hours of emotionally loaded talks, discussions of life and death and lack of trust. “Again.” He said. “It’s a good book.”

Hamlet ran a hand up and down Horatio’s arm, from wrist to shoulder. “What’s your favorite line this time around?”

“Tough question.” Horatio mused. He carefully sat up and flipped through the book, letting Hamlet look over his elbow as he studied the abundance of annotations. “I think I like: ‘I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.’”

“That one’s good.” Hamlet said.

“I thought so.” Horatio passed the book off to Hamlet, who flipped through Horatio’s notes. As he watched Hamlet pause on a page, Horatio’s thoughts flickered back to a few nights ago and the revelation he’d made to himself, the pieces which finally clicked into place, his own personal ‘tonight.’ Horatio took a breath. No time like the present.

“Hamlet,” he looked up expectantly as Horatio offered a nervous smile, “I love you.”

* * *

Hamlet blinked at him. He wondered quickly if maybe he was having one of his weird, hyper-realistic dreams; like the one where he wakes up, gets ready for class, and then realizes that he’s asleep only once the real alarm rings. He pinched himself discretely, noting that he was very much awake and that Horatio, logically, must have actually spoken.

“What?” He asked hesitantly, unwilling to trust what might have been a hallucination or dream. He braced himself to laugh it off.

“I love you,” Horatio repeated quietly, reaching out a hand and touching his cheek gently. His steady green eyes looked at him with his most and least favorite expression; devotion. Hamlet tentatively covered Horatio’s hand with his own.

“Do you mean it?” He asked after a pause, panic meeting ecstasy and mixing together into a terrifying concoction of blinding intensity.

“Yes,” Horatio said firmly. Hamlet placed the book beside him on the bed, mind and body still uncertain of what to do. It felt like the gas and the break were both floored simultaneously.

“Are you sure?” Hamlet asked guardedly, even though he adjusted Horatio’s position on the bed so that he could straddle his lap and make easier eye contact with him.

“I’m sure,” Horatio said, awkwardly settling his hands on his hips.

Hamlet searched Horatio’s emerald gaze for any shred of untruth or ulterior motive. Caution was vital. He knew what happened when he was careless, and he wouldn’t let himself be careless this time. Horatio mattered to much. He was certain even before they started officially being romantically involved that he’d die without him, and that was even more true now than it was before. He cupped Horatio’s face in his hands, committing to memory every slight spot of tension in his brow and jaw; the few perfect ringlets that fell over his forehead and bright, earnest eyes. Hamlet invited him to sit more upright, bringing their faces within inches of one another.

“Then consume me,” he whispered, running a hand through his beautiful, tangly hair. “I don’t want anything left over.” He caught his breath as he felt Horatio’s grip on his hips and waist tighten slightly. “You can have me; do whatever you want with me.” Hamlet leaned in so that he could whisper directly against his ear. “Tear me apart if you want to. I’m never going to love anyone else after you, so you might as well kill me if you ever stop wanting me.”

“Hamlet-” Horatio breathed shakily.

“I’ve heard the words enough from other people to know that they aren’t always true,” Hamlet cut him off quickly, locking eye contact with him again. “Are you lying?”

“No,” Horatio said, gaze shifting from wary to confident. “I’m in love with you.”

“And I can trust you?” Hamlet asked, faltering slightly. Memories of failed loves rushed back to him, crowned by Ophelia. Horatio ran his hands soothingly along his back.

“You can trust me,” Horatio said seriously.

“You won’t get bored of me?” Hamlet asked, confidence wavering as he started falling into the laundry list of bad ends to relationships. Horatio looked at him and laughed slightly, though his humor died as Hamlet’s expression didn’t lift.

“I can’t imagine anyone getting bored of you,” Horatio said reassuringly, lifting a hand to his head and running his fingers gently through his hair.

“It’s happened,” Hamlet said stiffly.

“It won’t this time,” Horatio said sweetly. Hamlet took a half-hearted breath of relief.

“You won’t hate me?” Hamlet asked, anxiety making the tips of his fingers tingle even as he knotted them lightly into Horatio’s hair.

“Nope,” Horatio tried to smile reassuringly, but he just looked worried.

“Even if I have bad days and you can’t fix them?” Hamlet asked weakly. “Or if I don’t want to have sex on a night when you do? Or if Mother comes and says awful things to you, or--”

“Hamlet, I’m not going to hate you,” Horatio cut him off, leaning forward and kissing him on the forehead. “I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises like that,” Hamlet whispered miserably. He closed his eyes against anxious tears.

“I can promise I won’t hate you,” Horatio repeated, smoothing back his hair. Hamlet couldn’t quite bring himself to open his eyes and look at him.

“What if I can’t give you what you want?” Hamlet finally asked, though it tore at him to say it. Ultimately that was what ended all the other relationships, romantic or otherwise. He opened his eyes but couldn’t will himself to look directly at Horatio.

“What do you think I want?” Horatio asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Hamlet sighed. “Sex. Loving companionship. Happiness. Normal things.” Hamlet glanced up at him, and found only warmth in his gaze.

“What do  you want?” Horatio prompted, still stroking his hair reassuringly.

“I really don’t know,” Hamlet admitted. He cracked a faint smile. “Sex, loving companionship, and happiness?”

Horatio tilted his chin up and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “I want you to feel safe and loved. And happy, eventually,” he added. Hamlet wrapped his arms tightly around Horatio’s neck, holding him close. “I love you,” Horatio said again, massaging his back gently.

“You love me,” Hamlet repeated to himself. He liked how it felt. He closed his eyes and kissed Horatio’s neck. “You love me,” he said again, allowing himself to believe the words. He rocked back slightly, grinding his hips against Horatio’s groin as he kissed him hungrily on the lips.

The floodgates were open, and now every shred of distance between them felt frigid and unwelcome. Horatio seemed to share the sentiment as he helped him strip off his pajamas before starting on his own clothes. Between breaths, Hamlet covered Horatio’s face and neck with kisses, pressing their bodies as close together as was feasible. He nuzzled his face into the crook of Horatio’s neck while his hands worked their way down his body, stroking his hips and thighs as arousal grew pressing and irresistible between both their legs.

“Horatio,” Hamlet panted, reluctantly pulling away from him far enough for Horatio to kiss his chest, paying special attention to the hollow spot where his throat met his collar bone. He moaned as he felt Horatio’s teeth graze his soft skin. Hamlet caught his jaw lightly with one hand, bringing him up so they were face to face, smouldering under the seductive love and desire of his viridian gaze. “Kiss me,” he commanded, and Horatio kissed him so hard he swore he could feel his teeth knock against his own.

A quiet sound of complaint passed Horatio’s lips as he pulled away, but it was quickly replaced by shallow breaths as Hamlet pushed him back against the bed, kissing a line from his chest all the way to his navel. He smiled as he felt Horatio’s erection straining against the fabric of his boxers, kissing his stomach again as he teased his fingers over the length of it through the thin cotton. He rarely enjoyed giving head to guys, but Horatio was different. He glanced to his face as he helped him free of the garment, keeping eye contact as he ran his tongue from base to head of his erection. The moan he earned was more than enough compensation for his efforts.

He took Horatio into his mouth slowly, teasing the head and shaft with his tongue. He used his hand to make up the difference as he started to suck and bob his head leisurely, taking his time to experiment and play with what he was doing. Horatio tensed under his touch as he twisted his hand gently with each pump, squirming and cupping his cheek with one hand. Hamlet reached for the other one and held it, uninterested in dealing with his own arousal.

He quickened his pace to the one he knew Horatio liked, losing himself in the act of it as Horatio’s stifled groans escalated into desperate breaths and sighs. His cock was hard and heavy in his mouth, and Hamlet could feel the occasional throb of it as he got closer. He gave Horatio’s hand a squeeze, and felt his other hand tangle in his hair in response.

Hamlet relaxed his throat and took away his other hand, sliding it up Horatio’s body and settling it gently against his waist. He moaned slightly as he felt Horatio gasp his name as he took the full length of his cock into his mouth and throat, sucking hard and flicking the tip of his tongue up so that it pressed against him with each confident bob of his head. Within seconds he felt Horatio’s hips rocking with his movements, his one hand alternating between stroking or gently tugging his hair while the other had a vice grip on his hand. Hamlet opened his eyes and hummed to himself in approval at the absolutely pornographic look of pleasure on Horatio’s face as he caught him looking.

As Hamlet felt the first signs of Horatio’s orgasm he slowed his movements, taking him as deep in his mouth as he possibly could and setting a gentler, deeper pace with his head and tongue, drawing out the ordeal for as long as he possibly could and reflexively swallowing each pulse of cum. He stroked Horatio’s side lightly as he moaned, closing his eyes and leaning slightly against Horatio’s hand as he cupped his cheek. He knew he was done once Horatio relaxed and finally took a deep breath.

Hamlet sat up and started to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand only to be blocked by Horatio kissing him on the lips. They were both thoroughly out of breath when Horatio finally pulled away, though Hamlet didn’t have much time to breathe before he felt Horatio’s hand wrap around his own neglected erection. He wrapped his arms around Horatio’s neck, kissing his cheek and the shell of his ear as he held him close and sucked on the tender spot between his neck and his jaw, earning him a content sigh as he tilted his head and gave him better access to it. Hamlet protested weakly as Horatio lay him on his back, settling himself between his legs. It was a chivalrous yet ultimately pointless gesture on Horatio’s part; at this point Hamlet was essentially forcing himself to delay his orgasm until Horatio was ready.

He sighed once Horatio took him into his mouth, leaning back against the pillows and running both his hands through Horatio’s thick hair as he felt him start to suck. He moaned as Horatio massaged his ass and thighs with his hands, knotting his fingers tightly in his hair as he came. He was vaguely aware that under different circumstances he might have been embarrassed at how little it took to get him there, but this wasn’t a hook up or coquettish game. He let the warmth well unhindered in his chest as Horatio pulled away from his cock and kissed his thighs and stomach with tender devotion.

“Horatio,” Hamlet whispered once words came back to him. Horatio’s intelligent eyes looked up at him from where he was kissing his navel. Hamlet tugged lightly at his arm until he came back up beside him where he could kiss him properly. He smiled against Horatio’s lips as he felt him run his fingers through his now-tangled hair.

“I love you,” Horatio said quietly as they pulled apart. Hamlet’s smile broke into a grin, which felt foreign on his mouth. The tears that pricked the edges of his eyes were much more familiar. Horatio wiped one away with a finger. “What’s wrong?” He asked, worry already creeping back into his sex-heavy voice.

Hamlet laughed weakly and kissed him on the cheek before wiping his eyes himself. “Nothing,” Hamlet said, still smiling. He pulled Horatio’s arms around him. “I think I’ve waited for years to hear you say that.”

“I said it earlier,” Horatio said gently, kissing his forehead. Hamlet pushed both of them back down on the bed and snuggled against his chest.

“I know,” Hamlet said, tracing the edge of his chest idly with his fingers. “But I only processed it now.” He took one of Horatio’s hands and held it to his lips, kissing the knuckles lightly. “Horatio?” He finally said, glancing back up at him.

“Hm?” Horatio’s gaze was a beautiful mix of interest and sleepy contentment. Hamlet smiled at him and held his hand against his cheek.

“I think I feel safe.”


	32. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia snaps. Horatio is in love. Hamlet picks old fights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the lapse. I'm trying to get us back on schedule (new post every Thursday) so we'll see how that goes.

Once Ophelia opened the windows and turned up the music, she started to feel better. No, she didn’t feel good. In fact, the whipping wind was painfully cold against her skin and she relished it. It was what she deserved, after all. She deserved to have the cold seep past her skin and into her muscle until filigree curls of frost wound their way around her bones. Yes, she deserved to hurt as much as possible.

Driving out of the city was always bad, and today was no exception. Angry people filled angry cars with angry gashes scaped against their sides from the constant traffic. Once she was free, she sped along the freeway, into the forest. Thirty minutes into her three hour trek, she decided that if she had to listen to another boring top forties hit she was going to start screaming again. Without stopping, she took her favorite CD out of its case and popped it into the radio. Apocalyptica. Loud and dramatic and oh so very loud.

“You wouldn’t like it very much, Mom, reckless driving. I’ve heard it’s dangerous. That I might get hurt.” Ophelia laughed as she turned the music up louder. She was in the danger zone and she knew it. She had successfully managed to block out all the sounds of her car and the road, so she was completely isolated.

A few tracks passed and Ophelia sang along like any normal person might and then she hit that  song .

“ Too late, this is not the answer

I need to pack it in

I can't pull your heart together with just my voice alone

A thousand shards of glass I came to meet you in

You cut the peace out of me, ” she sang, though it was more like screaming to be heard over the recording.

“Do you remember that, Mom?” Ophelia yelled. “We used to sing all the time. Lae too. What happened?” The music was too loud and the wind too rough to hear an answer. “Don’t you remember.”

“ But as the light in you went dark I saw you turn over

I wanted always to be there for you and close to you

But I'm losing this

And I'm losing you. ”

All at once, everything became too much and Ophelia wanted to fling herself out of the car and against the asphalt. At the thought, she could have sworn that the crucifix grew warm against her skin, but who was she kidding. It’s not like she could care anymore. What was there left to care about. Nothing. Ophelia shut off the music and closed the windows and for a moment, the relative silence was deafening.

It dawned on her that she couldn’t quite remember the last time she slept well. Except she could. Except she couldn’t. Except she was awake right now and weighing the pros and cons of smashing her car into a tree. That would probably hurt, so better to not. An odd clicking crawled up her spine and Ophelia thought for sure that meant something was wrong with her car. Logically, the proper thing to do would be to get out and check before anyone accidentally gets hurt but she kept driving. The pavement changed as she took a turn, which only managed to strengthen her fear that her car was definitely about to catch on fire and explode.

Ophelia needed out. She needed out right this very second, but there was nowhere to go but the forest. Technically, that would make everything easier and she wouldn’t have to go through all the extra steps of parking her car at home and walking through her house and hiking through the woods. It’s not like the forest cared where anything happened. It didn’t care. Nothing cared. She didn’t care anymore.

A cheery wooden sign proclaimed ‘Badger Brook Hollow’ meant that Ophelia was almost home, so she might as well finish the drive. “It hasn’t changed much,” she whispered as she curled her fingers around the necklace. “Not that you would notice. Nothing much ever changes. That’s why we went to the city. That, and other things.” Ophelia wondered if this meant she was insane. Normal, healthy people don’t talk to crucifixes. Normal, healthy people also aren’t absolutely positive that their mom is trapped inside of one.

Maybe none of it was real and everyone she knew was crazy. There was no way it could be. Ophelia had never believed in ghosts before and now she just did, because something bad happened. Maybe that wasn’t real either and everything has just been some awful nightmare. She could wake up and she’d be nine again, playing soccer outside her abuela’s house in Mexico City and everything would be fine.

Ophelia had known nightmares before and she knew nightmares within nightmares. It wouldn’t really be that absurd for most of her life to be one giant, sleeping hallucination. Hell, maybe she’d be able to use all the information she’s learned to actually do well in school. That was the thing, though. Ophelia couldn’t learn in dreams. She could only recount time and time again things that she already knew. And that’s why this wasn’t a nightmare. Worse, it was real. 

Ophelia pulled into her driveway and from the looks of it, one of their neighbors had been keeping up with the yardwork. Funny how they insisted on keeping this house even though no one had lived in it for almost half a decade. It was odd how the flower beds were flush with color even though it was well into fall. She sat on her doorstep and looked at them.

“You liked them, I think,” Ophelia mused to her mother. “I remember you spent a lot of time putting them in even though Lae really wanted you to play with us.” Somewhere in the farthest part of her skull, Ophelia knew she was being mean, but it hurt. “I wonder if you regret it, now that you know you wouldn’t have that much time left.”

Ophelia scoffed and stomped over to the flowers. A few springs of rosemary were nestled against red brick. She could smell it through the air. “I remember,” Ophelia mumbled as she pulled a few leaves from the stalk. “I remember you used to cook with this. Remember?” Ophelia was sure she didn’t. She was sure her mother was dead and they can’t remember anything. “Do you?” she asked, grasping the crucifix. There was no answer. And now she was going to be driven insane. Perfect. She pulled the rosemary out from its roots and threw it into the pavement. “I guess you can’t use it anymore.”

“Pansies,” Ophelia laughed as she turned to the next flower. “That’s funny. I don’t think you gave a thought for us at all.” She wasn’t laughing, actually. And she wasn’t crying either. “Maybe if you did you wouldn’t have left us alone.” There was silence, cold and deafening. “You’re really not going to talk back, are you?”

Ophelia dragged her foot through the clump of pansies before a scraggly bunch of weeds caught her attention. Fennel and columbine and rue. Festering weeds that were ruining her mother’s garden and Hamlet too. He could gather them all and give them to Horatio and his mother. Fennel wasn’t so far from hemlock and rue could burn and blister, so only the columbine had to go. She ripped the flower-heads off and stuffed them in her pockets.

Then there were daisies and violets. They looked soft, she thought. They were soft and sweet when her mother braided them into her hair. Ophelia had been so young then and she was so young now. She thought her fingers burned when she wrapped them around the petals. They wouldn’t look nice in her hair anymore. There was nothing to do. Ophelia looked at the mass of white and purple squished in her hand. Nothing at all.

She rent the plant matter away from itself, cutting into it with her fingernails. Chlorophyl stained her skin and knees, but it wasn’t like it mattered. No one had to help her with her laundry anymore and no one could scold her if she got too dirty. She had never gotten too dirty as a kid. There hadn’t been such a thing. There was nothing. Nothing! Nothing left in the garden bed, nothing left in the house, nothing left on earth.

“Dear? Ophelia? Are you alright?” She could tell a neighbor was talking to her, but she couldn’t hear. Ophelia didn’t remember this woman having grey hair. Maybe her mother would have had grey hair by now, too. She could scream and scream and scream and if her mother wouldn’t answer, maybe this woman could. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t anything and her dad taught her not to yell. “You’re not going to be able to clear that brush without gloves. You’ll hurt yourself.” Ophelia took a step forward and the sounds of cracking bones hurt her ears. She didn’t know her house had been built on a graveyard or that she had sunk so far into the dirt.

“Honey, why don’t you go inside and rest. I can call my son and he’ll do it tomorrow.” Rest? Rest. There was no such thing as rest. There were graves and bones and the cold, but no rest. There was no movement or sound or quiet. There was nothing and no one and Ophelia was alone in a house she didn’t know anymore filled with things she doesn’t understand. The only thing that made sense was the forest. The forest.

* * *

Nothing in the universe could be so blissful as to wake up with Hamlet in his arms. Nothing could ever be better and nothing, he was sure, could ever surpass this moment. It seemed almost impossible but from the cluttered mess that had become his brain over the last month there had come something almost like solid content. Definitely like happiness. Horatio was completely and utterly happy with Hamlet. And, surprise, he loved him, so there was that revelation out in the open. Better yet, he now knew he’d loved him all along, even before he’d realized. Even before he knew what love was, he’d loved Hamlet.

As Hamlet breathed deeply, Horatio allowed himself to exhale in sync.

“Good Evening.” Hamlet said, voice clear, even, and, for once in his life, peaceful. Rather than responding directly, Horatio buried his head into the tender crook of Hamlet’s neck and kissed him. He hummed in easy delight as Hamlet toyed with the hair laying at the nape of his neck. With their arms still loosely draped across each other’s shoulders and their legs tangled together, there seemed to be no space between them, no separation, and Horatio could not be more glad for it.

“Did you sleep well?” Horatio mumbled into Hamlet’s soft skin as the other’s hand drifted up to twine in his hair.

“The best I’ve had in months.” Hamlet sighed. His warm breath tickled Horatio’s ear. “You love me.” Hamlet said quietly, apparently for the express purpose of hearing it outloud.

“I do.” Horatio said, halfway to breathless as Hamlet kissed the shell of his ear. “I really, really do.” He laughed as Hamlet adjusted himself, bringing them face to face. Horatio stared deep into Hamlet’s onyx eyes. In the dim light, the pupils seemed to melt into the iris, forming a lacquer-smooth surface across which golden flecks of the setting sun could play like sparks of fire. Horatio welcomed the kiss Hamlet offered but didn’t dare close his eyes lest he should lose the image currently burning itself into his brain.

As Hamlet pulled away, Horatio continued to adore him, kissing along his jaw and down the length of his neck, not so much in the pursuit of arousal but to give physical manifestation to his declarations. Hamlet tipped his head back and sighed as Horatio slipped down to his collarbone. He giggled unexpectedly as Horatio brushed lightly over his side, which caused Horatio to laugh too. The scene, as imagined in Horatio’s mind, was such a novel mix of ardor and domesticity that he could barely wrap his head around it. Yet, at the same time, it felt right. It felt like this was where they were always meant to be. Always like this, always together.

The peace of their evening was assured until it wasn’t. Horatio groaned as he heard his phone ring and squirmed so that he could once again bury his head into Hamlet’s shoulder to block out the unpleasant intrusion. Hamlet himself had stiffened at the sound but, once it petered out, returned to stroking Horatio’s hair. He seemed just as ready as Horatio to forget the call and return to their hazy rapture but, as the phone rang yet again, Hamlet released an audible noise of displeasure.

“Do you need to get that?” Hamlet grumbled as if he were put off by the very idea of technology.

Horatio shook his head against Hamlet’s collarbone. “No. Nobody should need me right now.” Who could it realistically be anyways? Not Ophelia and he’d never given Laertes or Fortinbras his actual number to his knowledge. That left his mom and nobody in their right mind ended post-sex cuddling to talk with their mom.

The ringing stopped, leaving a stilted silence. When a minute had passed without any more noise, Horatio released the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Hamlet relaxed into him.

Then it rang again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Horatio muttered miserably. With the utmost reluctance, he dragged himself out of Hamlet’s tightening hold and sat up. Hamlet pulled himself up as well, apparently just to lean against Horatio’s shoulder and stare at him with guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes.

Horatio snagged his phone right before the last ring. “What do you need? I’m busy.” He snapped, fully aware that if it was his mom on the other end of the line he’d have hell to pay for his tone, but far too put out to really care.

There was a pause before the person on the other end of the line cleared their throat. “Horatio, hey, it’s, um, it’s Fortinbras.”

“Fortinbras?” Horatio blinked in confusion. Next to him, Hamlet’s face twisted in distaste and he held out a hand, instructing Horatio without words to pass him the phone. Horatio considered it for a second. Let Hamlet be a bastard and hang up for him so that he could return to cuddling and bliss; it was a perfect plan, honestly. Only, Fortinbras’ voice had reminded Horatio of Ophelia and all the stark realities she had thrown in his face when she came to reclaim the locket; that he was a coward and deceptive and a bitch who couldn’t face his own emotions. As if summoned, all the guilt Horatio had forgotten came rushing back, twisting his stomach into knots and sending him reeling. He felt guilty for ever having not been guilty.

Despite Hamlet’s obvious displeasure, Horatio leaned forward in bed and clutched the phone to his ear. “I mean, hi. Hi, how are, uh...how are you?”

There was shuffling on the other end of the line as if someone were sorting through papers. “You know, I’ve been better.” Fortinbras said without humor. “Have you seen Ophelia?”

“No?” Horatio asked. “Why?”

Fortinbras sighed. “She’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?” Horatio said, voice rising. Hamlet’s annoyance faded to a nervousness at his tone.

“I mean missing.” Fortinbras said. She sounded exhausted despite herself, which only set Horatio farther on edge.

Gently, Horatio finished extracting himself from Hamlet and started to pace by the foot of the bed. “Have you talked to Laertes?” He asked while simultaneously attempting to manage a silent conversation with Hamlet about how he should hang up and climb back into bed.

“Laertes is in the room with me. He has no idea where she is either.” Fortinbras said.

“I don’t understand why we’re calling him!” Horatio heard Laertes shout in the background, accompanied by a loud-ish crash. “You really think Ophelia would have called the asshole who kidnapped our mom?”

Fortinbras pulled back from the phone and the noise on the other end muffled. “I think,” Horatio heard her say as if through a long tunnel, “that it’s worth a shot. We don’t have a whole lot of leads here.”

Horatio ran a hand through his hair. “How...what do you think happened? Why would she have left?”

Whatever was muffling the line was removed and Laertes’ ragged voice took over the conversation. “Well, I’ll give you three guesses.” He laughed bitterly. “But I think you’ll only really need one. What do you think happened, Horatio? What does your  clever little brain tell you happened?” His tone turned utterly venomous. “You think maybe having her best friend betray may have had anything to do with it? Or maybe that fucking stunt you pulled at the dorm, maybe that was it?”

Horatio tried to answer but found that his throat had run dry. As if on cue, Hamlet reached up and plucked the phone from his weak grasp. “We don’t know where she is.” He said coolly. “Thanks for calling.”

“Hamlet!” Horatio recovered just in time to snatch the phone back before Hamlet could hang up. “Laertes?” He asked.

“Fortinbras.” The other said in exhaustion.

Horatio nodded and drew a deep breath. “I’m so sorry for the necklace.” He said before Fortinbras could interject. “I should have called you and told you that Ophelia had it back but I didn’t think and I was distracted by the fact that Hamlet lost ten pounds while on that weird island in the Mediterranean talking to the ghost guru and then there was stuff with my mom and cats and Hamlet’s dad’s spirit materialized in the shower again and then there was some other stuff and I told Hamlet I loved him and then he fucked me senseless with his fantastic mouth and then I sucked him off while-”

“Okay.” Fortinbras said loudly. “Okay, too much information.”

Horatio sank back onto the bed as Fortinbras took a moment to recover. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hamlet glaring at him but chose to ignore it.

“Okay.” Fortinbras finally said. “Right so...I don’t actually know what to address from all of...that. Hamlet’s dad showed up again?”

“Yup.” Horatio said nervously.

“...In the shower?”

“I think he likes the ghostly acoustics.” Hamlet massaged his brow but thankfully remained quiet.

“Right.” Fortinbras said doubtfully. “And Ophelia got the necklace back?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Hamlet took it from me.” Horatio didn’t think it was possible for him to feel worse but the reminder of Ariche puppet-ing his body  Weekend at Bernie’s  style was enough to make him lightheaded with anxiety. “I swear I didn’t mean to keep it. I just- she wanted to keep Ophelia safe and I wanted to help and things got so out of hand.”

Hamlet placed a hand on Horatio’s calf and massaged the muscles, effectively forcing Horatio’s attention back to him. He held out his other hand and this time Horatio gave him the phone willingly.

“Fortinbras? Yeah, it’s Hamlet. So what’s going on?” Hamlet said evenly, though Horatio could tell by the curl of his lip that he was only barely resisting the urge to throw the phone. He continued to rub Horatio’s leg as he listened and Horatio threw all of his stray energy into concentrating on the pressure.

“Right.” Hamlet spoke after a few minutes’ quiet, making Horatio jump. “And she didn’t say anything?...Okay.”

Horatio stared intently as Hamlet listened some more. “Yeah...Yeah that makes sense...Let us know if you find anything.”

“Wait,” Horatio burst in, “we have to help!”

Hamlet passed him an odd and unreadable look. “No we don’t.” He said pointedly, not bothering to cup the receiver.

“Yes we do.” Horatio insisted. “She’s our friend.”

“She’s  your  friend.” Hamlet corrected, all the insecurity shed last night creeping back across his handsome features.

Horatio leaned forward and planted a hasty kiss on Hamlet’s forehead as a means of assurance. “Yes. Yeah, she’s my friend and I need to help her.” He carefully pried the phone loose of Hamlet’s grip. “Do you have any idea of where she could be?” He asked Fortinbras.

“Laertes has a theory but we don’t have a car.”

Horatio sent a pleading look towards Hamlet, who rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He whispered in defeat. “I’ll call Osric.”

“And you’ll come?” Horatio asked. Despite this new drama, the commanding desire to be near Hamlet at all times hadn’t yet passed and the prospect of separation made the next few hours even more upsetting than they already were.

“Yeah,” Hamlet said reluctantly as he wrapped his arms around his middle, “yeah, I’ll come too.”

Horatio smiled shakily. “We can get you the car.” He said to Fortinbras. “And we’ll come along if you want us to.”

“Sure.” Fortinbras said at the exact moment Laertes yelled ‘absolutely not’ in the background.

“Great,” Horatio said hurriedly, “we’ll meet you at Ophelia’s dorm.” He hung up and began to search for his hastily discarded boxers. As soon as he had located them, he returned to Hamlet, who appeared in the midst of regretting his offer to leave bed.

Horatio kissed him with passionate intent. “Thank you.” He said earnestly.

Hamlet frowned at him but relented. “Of course.” He sighed. “I’ll go call Osric.”

* * *

Hamlet scowled at Laertes and Fortinbras from the back of the limo. It was the only car that he owned that could comfortable seat five plus Osric, so it would have to do. So many memories of painfully tense parties and dinners with his parents took place in this car, but now it was home to a new kind of horror: Being able to be glared at by one of his exes as well as the scary lesbian that was dating another one of his exes who also happens to be the first ex’s twin, while also seated beside the man that he left said twin for. It was truly the absolute worst case scenario, and would only be made worse once Ophelia was actually acquired. In moments like this he wished that his family had just purchased a minivan instead. At least then he wouldn’t have to look at all of them.

Hamlet didn’t dare hold Horatio’s hand while in the same car as Laertes, but he did press their thighs together tightly. After his little outburst to Fortinbras, she at least knew all the dirty details of their past two days, but there was no need to add to the list of reasons for Laertes to gut him. Horatio seemed to share the sentiment, since he was uncharacteristically still beside him.

“So,” Hamlet said, mostly to keep himself from ripping at the still-healing lacerations on his arms out of stress and boredom. “Where are we going?”

“I told Osric,” Laertes snapped without looking directly at him.

“How very helpful,” Hamlet snarled through his teeth. “I see your as easy to talk to as always.” He wished he could have stopped the words, but Laertes was always a bit of a sore spot.

“Listen up you little-” Laertes started. Fortinbras had to block him with her arm as he surged forward.

“Oh? Still want to choke me after all this time?” Hamlet asked as he bristled, regret of speaking at all evenly tied with his ill-processed feelings about how things ended with Laertes.

“For what you did to my sister, I should cut your-” Laertes hissed, dark eyes sharp with untamed hatred. Hamlet flinched despite himself.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Horatio said darkly. Hamlet placed his fingers lightly over Horatio’s thigh, reassured as he held his hand.

“Okay!” Fortinbras shouted. “All of you are banned from speaking. Okay?”

“He started it,” Laertes grumbled.

“Did I say you could speak?” Fortinbras said coldly. Laertes shrank back. Sated, Fortinbras glanced to Hamlet, gray eyes filled with exhausted irritation. “We’re going to the woods by Ophelia’s old house.”

“But that’s-” Hamlet started. He cut himself off as Fortinbras raised a threatening brow at him. He grit his teeth but didn’t push his luck, opting instead to open his phone so he could at least text Horatio. 

9:18 PM

If this gets me killed by Laertes I’m going to haunt you.

Don’t joke about it,  Horatio typed back quickly. Hamlet smiled up at him, but it faded as he saw legitimate fear on his face.

Osric wouldn’t let him,  Hamlet typed back. It was true. As far as he could tell, Osric had MMA training and knew nearly every hand-held weapon as intimately as Hamlet knew fashion.

The awful part was that Ophelia’s childhood home was nearly four hours out of the city. It was a long way to drive for someone who liked him, let alone someone who hated his guts. Then again, he was out here mostly because Horatio asked him to come. And because they needed the car and Osric was the only one with legitimate medical training should they need it.

“So Horatio,” Fortinbras said after an hour of silence. Hamlet blinked into attention, having already started to doze off against Horatio’s shoulder. “We should have a plan.”

“The plan is that you and Laertes get Ophelia and leave us alone,” Hamlet said sharply.

“Stop talking,” Laertes growled. “You’re only here because you own a fucking limo.”

Hamlet bit the inside of his lip. No matter how numb he wished anger could make him, it still stung to have to face the fact that he’d thoroughly torn up all of their lives. Well, possibly exempting Horatio, who seemed content enough when they could be alone together.

“She has the car,” Fortinbras started cautiously. “Laertes and I can ride back with her.”

“And then you two vipers can be out of her life,” Laertes cut in again. Hamlet could feel Horatio tense beside him, and his own guilt set in. He was the one Horatio had ruined the friendship for, after all.

“That’s up to Ophelia,” Fortinbras said pointedly to Laertes. Hamlet had a sense that, perhaps, she and Laertes were in disagreement on which specific ring of hell he and Horatio belonged in. At the very least, she seemed less inclined to make decisions on Ophelia’s behalf.

Hamlet crossed and uncrossed his legs. Scratched at the itchy scars until Horatio delicately stopped him. He was sure he was going to die. He never had to endure car rides like this. Another half an hour ticked by.

“That’s it,” Hamlet muttered, shifting positions and laying across his side of the limo with his head in Horatio’s lap. As if by instinct, Horatio’s fingers ran through his hair.

“Can you maybe not?” Laertes asked through his teeth.

“Can you maybe stop being a bitch?” Hamlet said cruelly. “If you didn’t want me to date other people maybe you should have told me that, like, a year and a half ago.”

“Maybe I, oh I don’t know, don’t enjoy watching the guy who broke my sister’s heart snuggle up with his mistress,” Laertes said with frigid sarcasm.

“Horatio isn’t my-”

“Who said you were the one who broke her heart?” Laertes interjected with quite possibly the harshest glare Hamlet had ever been on the receiving end of. Even with the reassurance of Horatio’s touch he was just about at his breaking point. He sat up and pulled out his phone.

“Osric?” He said once he heard the click on the other end. “Pull over. I’m going to ride shotgun.” Hamlet did his best to ignore the pleading stare from Horatio.

“Alright,” Osric said, pulling into the breakdown lane. Hamlet hung up.

Hamlet gave Horatio a brief but intense kiss before climbing out of the car. Osric was already out and had the passenger side door open for him, which he awkwardly climbed into. He could count on one hand the number of times he rode in the front of a car. It was deeply unsettling but he felt immediately better now that he was well away from the hostility.

“Everything alright?” Osric asked as he merged back onto the highway.

“I am a terrible person,” Hamlet said as he stared out the window.

“I don’t believe that’s strictly true,” Osric said reassuringly as they drove.

“I started a fight with Laertes that I couldn’t finish,” Hamlet grumbled, pulling his legs up onto the seat so that he could hug them to his chest.

“Why did you do that?” Osric asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Hamlet muttered into his knees. “I don’t like him. He hates me.”

“You did end your relationship on rather difficult terms,” Osric said calmly. “And he’s under considerable stress right now.”

“Fortinbras also hates me,” Hamlet said miserably. “Which is fine. But they both hate Horatio because of me.”

“I’m sure that isn’t-”

“It is,” Hamlet cut Osric off. “They hate him because he hurt Ophelia. I think by dating me. But also because of that wretched cross.”

“People are often sentimental about those sorts of things,” Osric said as they drove. Hamlet stared out the window in silence for several minutes.

“Horatio said he loved me,” Hamlet finally said, not breaking his stare at the dark splotches of passing trees and street lights.

“Did he?” Osric asked. “How was that?”

“Good,” Hamlet said awkwardly. “It was only...five hours ago. Almost six.”

“I imagine this wasn’t the evening you had in mind,” Osric said gently. “How are you feeling about it?”

“The evening?” Hamlet asked, turning back to look at Osric. “Bad. This is a bad evening.”

“I meant about what Horatio’s said,” Osric corrected carefully.

“I said it was good,” Hamlet blushed.

“Did you tell him you loved him too?” Osric asked. Hamlet stared at him blankly.

“Not in so many words,” Hamlet finally said.

“Do you love him back?” Osric asked guardedly.

“Yes,” Hamlet said quickly. “Absolutely. More than anything.” He blinked in surprise at his own words, though Osric only smiled faintly at the road ahead of them.

“Good,” Osric said, glancing quickly to him. “It’s about time.”

“What do you mean?” Hamlet pouted, blushing pink. “You knew?”

“It’s been years,” Osric said. He laughed to himself. “You had a crush on him as early as freshman orientation.”

“I did not,” Hamlet protested. “I just made him take me out for coffee instead of doing the stupid bonding exercises.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Osric asked.

“That I love him?” Hamlet squirmed with discomfort. Once he said those words he would have nothing left. Not that he really had anything now. But still. If he could hold something out, it meant Horatio would still have a reason to be interested.

“Yes,” Osric nodded. “I believe that it’s generally understood as a good thing to say. Especially if it’s reciprocated.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Hamlet asked.

“You’re deflecting,” Osric said sternly. “And no. It’s never appealed to me.”

“If I tell him, he won’t need to stay anymore,” Hamlet said quietly.

“If you’ll excuse my rudeness,” Osric said awkwardly. “That makes no sense.”

“It does!” Hamlet said defensively. “I just...don’t know why.”

“You told Ophelia you loved her,” Osric said softly. “And, if I remember correctly, Laertes. And a few others, back in high school.”

“That was different,” Hamlet sulked. “Horatio is different.”

Osric pulled off the highway, heading into what was apparently the middle of nowhere in upstate New York. Hamlet stared in disbelief at the creepy little farms that suddenly spanned the midnight horizon. Farms always seemed to make him uncomfortable, especially at night.

“What do you think will happen if you tell him?” Osric asked, breaking the silence.

“I think he will be happy,” Hamlet said thoughtfully. “And then bored.”

“Bored?”

“Happiness is boring, right?” Hamlet asked. “That’s why no one reads books or writes plays about it. It isn’t interesting.”

“You don’t live in a book or play,” Osric said slowly.

“Life might as well be a play,” Hamlet shrugged. “There isn’t a difference, really.”

“I doubt that Horatio shares that view of things,” Osric said diplomatically. Another long pause fell over the car as farmland gave way to woods and back roads. It was unsettling. Hamlet never really went anywhere like the woods. All his time was in cities or at expensive beaches and resorts. This looked like the set of some horror film about pilgrims or something.

“Would it make you happy to love him?” Osric asked as they turned off into what appeared to be a wooded neighborhood or suburb. He pulled over in front of a closed up and dark house.

“I...think so,” Hamlet said quietly, staring at the house. “Yeah.” He whispered as he saw Horatio come round to the front of the car as all of them got out.

Horatio opened the door, bending down awkwardly. “We’re going to go look for Ophelia. Are you going to come?” He asked, glancing both to Hamlet and Osric.

“I’ll stay here,” Hamlet said, taking Horatio’s hand lightly. “I don’t think she’d want to see me. And Laertes might try to hide my body in a ditch.”

Horatio looked like he was about to protest, but he thought better of it. “Okay,” Horatio said, lifting his hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“I’ll stay with him,” Osric said gently. “Call if you need medical assistance.”

“I’m fine,” Hamlet said, meeting Horatio’s worried eyes with what he hoped was a reasonably assuring smile. In any case, Horatio bent down further and kissed him firmly on the lips. Hamlet winced as they pulled away.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Horatio said with one last kiss to his cheek. “See you soon.”

“See you,” Hamlet said quickly. He bit his lip as he watched Horatio go. Everything would be fine. Ophelia would be fine. She had to be. He wasn’t sure either of them would recover from the guilt if she wasn’t.


	33. Dies Illa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia goes to the water. Horatio takes a page from Hamlet's book. Hamlet takes a page back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Trigger warnings this chapter for suicide attempt/suicidal thoughts. I hope you enjoy! As always, kudos and comments make the weird ao3 formatting go down easier <3

The forest. Ophelia took a step out her back door. They had a deck once, and swings and a pool, but now they lived in the city and there wasn’t anything in the city anymore. She took another step and then another until she standing barefoot in the grass. There was one thing left in the forest and that could help. It could! And Ophelia just had to find her. It was two miles. 10560 feet and there was only one direction to go before the forest opened up to nothingness.

So Ophelia took a step and then another until the entire act of movement blurred together to an ache in her quads and feet. Darkness spread out before before her and the trees walked. Not only did they walk, they followed and Ophelia knew. She knew the oak over her shoulder had eyes and a face and carried guns and knives or whatever else people threaten middle aged mothers with. It took steps when she did and evaded her sight and step after step it descended deeper into the woods

There was a spot and Ophelia knew. The crucifix pulled her towards it the way someone would lead a dog. It twisted and burned with cold around her throat and it ate away at her skin, turning it gray and blue.

There was a spot, beside a grove of barren trees, underneath an outcropping of rocks. There was a spot that was perfect for someone to die. Ophelia whipped around to try and catch a glimpse of her assailants, but the footsteps were smaller now and they lurked like people. They were inside trees and under rocks and half buried under riversilt. And they watched. They watched for her to die too.

Ophelia sat beneath the rocks and waited for it to end, but that couldn’t happen because she had to dig. The ground was soft and damp and came up in clumps that broke apart in Ophelia’s palms. That was all she needed, right? Right. Reunite the body and the soul and you got a person. It didn’t matter how misformed and shambling it was. She got a person and Ophelia got her mom back if only she could find the bones.

Except eleven years was a long time and the ground was squishy and wet. No matter how far Ophelia dug, the dirt caked under her nails and water filled the hole. But still, there had to be something; something she could attach her mom’s soul to. Something that would walk and breathe and live.

But no. There was nothing. A hundred miles from the city and, still, there was nothing. Bones didn’t just go away. Ophelia dug harder, faster, hoping to outrun the rush of water. Bones didn’t leave unless someone took them. They took her mother from her again. They took her.

Maybe it wasn’t here. Maybe it was somewhere else. What did bad people do with the bodies of the people they killed? She knew. But there were people watching and Ophelia couldn’t let them know that she knew their tricks. She sat in the rocky hollow and pressed her forehead to the damp stone. The ground was squishy and wet and there was water somewhere and water could hide things. Many gruesome things.

After determining no one was scoping out her hiding place, Ophelia left to find the water. It was easy because she could follow the sound of frogs, crickets, and the dead. The reeds sang Rachmaninov in low and drizzly tones as she crushed them beneath her heels.

Ophelia was right. The crucifix told her so. This was it and she knew she’d find the body turned to sludge and bones by algae, but a body none the less. Her body, and that was the important part. The water wasn’t deep yet, but it was cold. She had to look, but it was dark and her feet kicked up the muck as she moved. There might have been fish and dragonfly nymphs that gorged themselves on her mother’s flesh. She took a step and then another. There were people talking; fake people that fluttered in the distance and cried out her name. Ariche or Ophelia. Ariche or Ophelia. Neither could tell anymore.

She took a few more steps. She had to seek. She had to find. She had to. She tore the crucifix off her neck and held it over the water. It needed to tell her. It needed to tell her who she was. The water was cold around her stomach. It was deeper than she thought and there was muck and plants and everything.

“Ophelia!” A man cried out and there was sounds of running and burning flashlight eyes. Ophelia lurched forward and into a deeper part of the pond. She couldn’t be caught again. She was already dead. They couldn’t kill her again and yet they tried and tried. Why were they trying? “You did this!” The man snarled like a prowling wolf on the edge of the water. “How could you do this to her?! She loved you!”

“Laertes, I--” a smaller man, a weaker man said.

“Don’t ‘Laertes’ me! You knew what you were doing! You knew every bit and still--” There was scuffling and splashing on the pond’s edge. Ophelia tried to thrash away, but her clothes were heavy, her legs were tangled, and her hand still grasped the crucifix.

“Stop it! Both of you! Or I’ll send you back to the car!” A third voice: high, strong, and divine. 

“Osric, help!” The second voice screamed. A fourth set of footsteps joined the others, but he didn’t stop.

Ophelia’s hair was wet and stuck to her face, choking her nose and mouth with water. Something clung to her shoulder and pulled her back. She screamed as much as she was able with a throatful of water. It hurt and burned and she didn’t know what to do. This thing worked its way under her arms and forced her head into the air. The only thing she could hear was the water dripping from her hair as she was dragged, kicking and screaming to the shore.

The feeling of her wrists on the ground was unwelcome and she was dogged with eyes that glowed and eyes that didn’t and voices. All of the voices were saying everything and it was too much. Ophelia wretched into the reeds, trying in vain to clear the water from her lungs.

“Ophelia,” the soft voice said as it creeped behind her. She could feel his hand outstretched above her.

“Don’t touch her!” The first voice shrieked and she had to cover her ears and press her forehead into the ground.

“But she’s my--” he was interrupted by the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

“Alright! You sit by the tree and you sit by the rock and if you so much as look at each other I’ll give you more to worry about that bruises.” The third voice didn’t yell. She commanded. “Ophelia?” she tried as she stepped closer. She sat down next to her. “Come on, we need to get you up so we can go home. It’s too cold out here.” Ophelia hadn’t noticed she was shivering. “Ophelia, I need you to get up.” She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be marched off to the next abysmal horror that faced her. At least she knew what the cold felt like.

There was a warm hand on her shoulder and suddenly Ophelia didn’t want to be cold anymore. “Come on, Ophelia,” Fortinbras said as she pushed a clump of wet hair from her face. “I can help, but I need you to save yourself.”

Ophelia sat on her knees and forced herself to look into those eyes. Fortinbras looked back and she knew who that was. “You’re not going to kill me,” she squeaked.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Fortinbras confirmed. “I’m going to take you back to the house. Osric’s going to patch you up and then we’ll go home. How does that sound?”

“But I didn’t find it.” She said as she started to pitch forward, but Fortinbras caught her.

“Find what?” she asked. She rubbed small circled into Ophelia’s back.

“The body. I need to give her back.” She held up the crucifix weakly.

Fortinbras held Ophelia’s hand and sighed. “There isn’t a body here. They wouldn’t just leave her here, Ophelia. When we get home we can look up where the grave is and put it there. May I please carry the crucifix to give you a break? I promise I’ll give it back when you ask for it.” Ophelia nodded against one of Fortinbras’ shoulders and released the necklace into her hand. “Okay, can you stand?”

Ophelia forced herself to her feet and leaned as Fortinbras supported half her weight. She was brought to the other. Laertes shot up as seen as he saw her and enveloped her in a warm hug. She almost fell from her shaking legs, but it felt nice to be held.

Osric knelt in front of Horatio, who was clutching at his eye. “Oh no,” Ophelia whispered. “Oh no, no, no. If they’re here, then…” she dissolved into a fit of tears for the first time in days. “It’s not their fault...I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She was pulled away from Horatio and led back to the car. They followed and Osric spoke to Fortinbras, but she couldn’t tell what was happening. The short walk drained the last bit of her frail energy and she wanted nothing more than to collapse in the back of the car and sleep.

Fortinbras sat in the back with her and held her as she cried. Everyone had seen her and she just wanted to disappear into the air, but Fortinbras held her hand and she was grounded to earth wether she liked it or not.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice still choked from the water.

“To Abuela’s,” Laertes answered. “She and Dad are going to meet us there and you can sleep.” His voice sounded just as exhausted.

“No, they can’t know! They’ll be ashamed of me,” Ophelia sobbed.

“They already do. They’re worried about you and they love you very much,” Fortinbras said gently. Ophelia only cried harder.

* * *

There was something fundamentally wrong with the inner workings of his brains. Mostly because, for the first time in Horatio’s life, they weren’t working. Oh, of course he could still follow what was going on, see the blazing anger and painful fear on Laertes face, see the running compassion and barely-held yet still-mastered calm in Fortinbras’ stance, and Ophelia. Ophelia soaking wet, covered in mud, sobbing into Fortinbras’ arms like the world had just ended because, for her, it had. At least in that moment.

All perfectly clear. All entirely in focus. So in focus, in fact, that it hurt to even look at the bright red reflections off Fortinbras’ shirt or the glint of the whites of Laertes’ eyes or the less defined outline of Osric’s face in front of his own. But where were the other senses? He could see more than he should be able to yet, when Osric spoke to him, his voice seemed muffled and half-formed, like a different language. The ground beneath him, which he knew should be unpleasantly damp against his pant legs, felt indistinct and airy. He continued to clutch his eye as Osric said something to him but only because he was sure it was supposed to hurt.

Like the possession, his mind whispered deviously. Sights without feelings. But even then it didn’t manifest the same. When Ariche was in control, Horatio could at least scream and cry and lash out. Now, he just felt stuck.

Osric leaned forward, gently guiding Horatio’s frozen stare away from the bundled mass that formed Ophelia, Fortinbras, and Laertes. Osric’s mouth moved again but produced pure gibberish. Upon seeing that he wasn’t getting a response, Osric pulled Horatio’s hand away from his eye and shone a penlight into it. Another string of nonsensical words and Osric frowned.

He head was heavy as Horatio shook it and his own voice, though audible, hardley sounded like him at all. “Where’s Ophelia?” He asked nonetheless. Osric answered, to little avail, forcing Horatio to lean around him. All he could see was forest though, forest and water and mud and signs of winter’s imminent arrival. At least it wasn’t as cold as the night Ariche had died. At least there was that.

Horatio was distracted from his musings by a single clarity in Osric’s speech and the hazed world suddenly slammed into reality with the force of a highway car crash. The mud caking his pants was frigid, the forest was practically screaming with the sounds of the last shreds of animals not yet killed by frost or driven into hibernation, the pain in his eye formed a blooming ache which traveled straight back through the cornea and into his brain cavity, and Osric had just finished lightly suggesting that they return to the limo.

“No.” Horatio said.

Osric’s expression didn’t change beyond a slight tweak in his mouth. “Horatio, I must insist.” He said. “This is no place to stay overnight.”

“It’s fine.” Horatio said. He fixed his gaze on the stream, barely visible in the dark, and swallowed hard. “She was going to kill herself.” He said dully.

Osric shifted so that his body was a physical blockade against the water. “Ophelia was confused and lost. I believe she fell-”

“She was going to drown herself.” Horatio interrupted. It felt like all the air was being squeezed out of him at once, compacting him into a pinprick or a period.

“We don’t know that.” Osric said firmly.

“I do.” Horatio choked on a demented little laugh. “Why...why is this happening? Osric, why is this happening?”

A hand on his shoulder. Horatio scrambled for it like a lifeline. “We should get back to Hamlet.” Osric reasoned.

Horatio shook his head. An uncomfortable smile was set across his face, shaky and uncertain and fragile, like a slit across the flesh. “I don’t understand.” He said or maybe asked again. “All my friends want to kill themselves. All of them. Ophelia was going to drown herself and Hamlet slit his wrists and tried to swallow pills and I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with that. I don’t know…”

“Horatio-” Osric said sympathetically.

He was undeterred. “Don’t they get it?” Horatio pushed forward. “Don’t they know how much it’s going to hurt? Don’t they understand what’s waiting for them? They’re going to die and leave me. They’re both going to die and I’m going to have to stand next to their fucking graves and talk to their parents and listen to everyone cry about how wonderful they were because they’re all so guilty they let them go, making them into saints the only way they can cope. Or worse, they’ll both die and come back as ghosts.”

He laughed again, louder this time, too loud in sharp, chilly air. “Then I’ll get to die three times. Won’t that be fun? Ophelia will fill my lungs with water and drag me down with her into the same freezing depths her mother painted me in. Then Hamlet will pull a razor across my wrists and let me coat the bed with the blood his father splattered across the streets. Or maybe he’ll be more creative this time.” Horatio staggered to his feet, only half aware that Osric was still monitoring his movements. “Maybe he’ll shred my stomach with sleeping pills or coat me in acid or starve all the flesh from my bones.” His cheeks and neck felt wet. He might have been sobbing except that Horatio didn’t sob unless he was in pain. “And then it’s my turn. After I’m done with cleaning up the messes they’ll leave behind, then I have to decide how I’m going to off myself.”

Horatio stared at Osric without seeing him. No, he was looking through Osric, fixing his eyes directly on the spot Ariche had died, huddled against a tree beside the creek her children probably used to play in on hot summer days. He could almost see it, little Ophelia kicking up water along the banks while her mom smiled at her over a book.

“I’ll do it the same way Hamlet does.” Horatio decided and the surety was enough to calm him down. “The exact same way.”

There was a short pause before Osric’s voice resurfaced. “Horatio, how long have you had suicidal ideations?” He asked in that very special tone that was supposed to be reserved for Hamlet’s bad days. Horatio felt instantly guilty for stealing it away. Why was he standing in the woods with Osric anyhow? The other man should be back at the car keeping Hamlet company.

“I don’t have suicidal thoughts.” Horatio explained evenly. “I want to protect Hamlet. He’ll go to hell if he offs himself and I can’t let him go alone. I love him.”

“Did you think of how that would make Hamlet feel?” Osric asked carefully. “If you killed yourself?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? He’ll be dead. Nothing he can do about it.”

“I could do something about it.” Osric said.

“Would you?” For the first time in the conversation, Horatio looked directly at Osric. He didn’t seem very concerned by the subject of the conversation but he never did. It was the only reason he had any success with Hamlet; because his emotions didn’t feed into Hamlet’s mania. It was disconcerting and frankly upsetting to realize Horatio had stepped into Hamlet’s role and he quickly thought to distance himself from it.

“I would.” Osric confirmed.

“I wouldn’t let you.” Horatio sighed. He ghosted one hand over his throbbing eye.

Osric pulled his hand away once again. “Does Hamlet know about your ideations?” He asked seriously.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Horatio said.

“Would you tell him?”

“If he asked. I don’t know how to lie well enough to avoid it.”

Osric hadn’t let go of his hand and the pressure of it was starting to make Horatio feel odd. His stomach squirmed as Osric released his hand to delicately prod the sensitive skin around his eye. “Do you think he’d approve?” Osric asked.

Horatio didn’t answer. He knew he wouldn’t like the way it sounded out loud. Instead he let his gaze wander back to the river. “I wish I could kill myself sooner. I don’t want to watch Hamlet die.” He said before he could stop himself.

Osric stiffened minutely and the hand near his eye became a death grip on his shoulder. Horatio winced and glanced to Osric. “It would fix things with Ophelia. Laertes would get what he wants. It would be okay.” He assured the other man quietly. “He’d be okay.”

“Do you really believe that?” Osric challenged in a rare display of baldfaced confidence.

Horatio met his piercing gaze for a count of ten before it became too much to bear. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Which is why I won’t do it yet.”

With the return of Osric’s silence, Horatio was made forcibly aware of his shaking legs. He sat down heavily and tucked his head into his lap, cringing away from the smell of rotting leaves and dirt. He wasn’t made for living outside of the city.

A shifting of dry leaves informed him that Osric had sat across from him. Horatio waited for the touch to return, uncertain if he was in anticipation or dread, but Osric remained still.

“I can’t go back to Hamlet right now.” Horatio answered his unspoken question.

“I think it will help if you do.” Osric suggested gently.

Horatio shook his head. “I’m supposed to be helping him. He doesn’t have to deal with this. You can leave too.” The guilt risen within him was an ache followed sharply by the blistering madness of slow moving regret.

“I’ll wait.” Osric said and, as if to emphasize his point, he changed his position to criss-cross.

He wanted to say more. Horatio could tell. Osric didn’t understand Horatio’s plans and he was almost certainly worried what effect his silent pact would have on Hamlet. But he didn't speak again.

“Why is this is happening?” Horatio repeated to the forest or maybe to God. “Why is this all happening?”

* * *

Hamlet bounced his knee anxiously. Osric had been gone...almost an hour. It was nearly two in the morning, and as of yet there was no sign of anyone coming out of the woods. On the upside, there were also no emergency vehicles, so no one was too badly hurt. Or, on the other hand, maybe Ophelia was dead and there was no point in calling an ambulance. Hamlet ceased his bouncing in favor of hugging his legs to his chest, cold panic settling in his chest.

He almost hit his head on the roof of the car as he jumped at the glint of a flashlight through the woods. Cautiously, he opened the car door and stepped a few feet forward, squinting to make out the identities of the figures leaving the woods. He counted three, which couldn’t be right. As they got closer he could make out the voices of Fortinbras and Laertes, and the miserably incoherent sobbing of Ophelia. So she was okay. Or rather, alive. He would know better than anyone that the two were not one and the same.

New dread fell upon him. If the three of them were here, where were Osric and Horatio? He grabbed his scarf from the car and jogged towards Fortinbras, who was nearest and least likely to slaughter him on sight.

“Fortinbras, wait.” Hamlet said between breaths as he caught up to her. The three of them were heading down the road, presumably to Laertes’ car.

“What is it?” Fortinbras said coldly as she paused and turned to face him. She looked completely worn out, but not quite angry.

“Where are Osric and Horatio?” Hamlet asked once he gathered the confidence.

“I don’t know,” Fortinbras sighed. “Probably either on their way here or still by the pond.”

“Are they okay?” Hamlet asked nervously. He glanced quickly at the steadily diminishing backs of Laertes and Ophelia. “Is she okay?”

“Ophelia will be okay. Eventually.” Fortinbras’ face softened by a fraction of a fraction. “Osric is fine. He’s taking care of Horatio,” she added as she started to walk away as well. It took a moment, and she was already nearly caught up to the twins as her words clicked in his head.

“Wait! Why would Horatio need to be taken care of?” He called after her. If she heard, she didn’t turn back to explain.

Hamlet glanced between the woods and the road. It was damp, and the ground was sloshy and muddy. He was by no means wearing durable mud shoes, but they’d have to do. He rolled up his pant legs so that they were neatly bundled at his knee, hoping that they’d be kept safe from the soaking grass and mud. He turned on his phone’s flashlight and started through the grassy stretch that separated the forest from the road.

The woods were exactly what he imagined as the setting for some sort of New England horror flick, complete with scary animal noises and twigs that broke under his now thoroughly damp feet. He bit his lip as he walked, well-aware that he had no idea where he was supposed to go. There was a path, which he assumed would be the one that Ophelia followed and thus also the path Horatio and Osric would be along. He tried not to think too hard about the sheer quantity of bugs that could very well be within an inch of him.

Eventually he saw the glint of someone else’s flashlight. It felt as though he’d been walking for ages, though in reality it was probably just ten minutes. He broke into a run, desperate to no longer be alone in the terrifying woods. If it was a murderous huntsman then that was just how it was going to be.

It was not a huntsman. As he rounded a bend, Osric came into view. He was kneeling beside Horatio, who was clutching his eye oddly. “Osric!” Hamlet called, causing both of them to look towards him. “What happened?” He asked softly, face falling as he saw the general expressions of misery on both of their faces. Especially Horatio.

“There was a bit of an altercation,” Osric said diplomatically as he stood. “I was just telling Horatio that we should head back to the car.”

“Are you okay?” Hamlet knelt in front of Horatio. He was soaking wet and covered in mud, and looked like he might break at any moment. Moreover, he wouldn’t look at him directly. Hamlet gingerly lifted Horatio’s hand from his eye, grimacing as he saw that there was already a dark bruise forming around it. He leaned forward to hug him, only to have Horatio veer away.

“You’ll get dirty,” Horatio muttered.

“I don’t care,” Hamlet said firmly. Horatio finally glanced to him, meeting his gaze. He could already see the wetness of his eyes, though it was uncertain whether he was about to cry or had been crying. In any case, Hamlet held Horatio’s head against his chest, running his fingers gently through his damp curls. “Let’s go back to the car,” Hamlet said quietly once he felt Horatio relax minutely into his touch.

Horatio didn’t respond with words, but he did stand. Hamlet pulled his arm around his shoulders, both to help keep himself warm but also to help Horatio balance since he seemed a bit shaky on his feet. His nice shirt and jacket would likely be ruined by the action, but he really and truly found it impossible to care. He wrapped an arm around Horatio’s waist as they walked, keeping him close.

The walk back to the car was significantly shorter than the walk out, which he supposed made sense. Osric opened the back door to the limo for them, which seemed impossibly large now that it was only the two of them. For whatever reason, Osric had a blanket and some towels in the trunk. Hamlet was never so thankful for anything in his life as he was for the soft warmth of cotton and polar fleece. Within a few minutes they were back on the road.

“What happened?” Hamlet asked again as he peeled Horatio’s soaked shirt off of him, drying his skin with one of the towels.

“I’m sorry,” Horatio mumbled, chest heaving slightly from panicked breaths. In the light of the car his eye looked truly awful. The bruise was deep and sank from his brow all the way to the edge of his cheek.

“It’s okay,” Hamlet said sweetly, wiping back the hair that fell over Horatio’s eyes. Questions would have to wait until Horatio was calmer, he decided.

“I fucked up,” Horatio said, voice catching in the back of his throat before hitching up in pitch and volume. “I did this. Ophelia tried to kill herself because of me, and I couldn’t keep you safe either, and everyone is going to fucking die and it’s going to be-”

Hamlet held his face gently, cutting him off with a kiss. “No,” he said as reassuringly as possible. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” Horatio gasped. Hamlet stroked his hair in an effort to calm him, but to little avail. “I’m going to have to die so many times. With each of you.”

“No, Horatio,” Hamlet whispered, kissing his face. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do,” Horatio said sadly. He wasn’t crying, but he certainly wasn’t well or calm. “I love my friends. I love you. I can’t let you die alone.”

Hamlet paused. He didn’t believe in making promises he couldn’t keep, and while in this moment he was certain of his own safety, past and future events seemed intent on proving him otherwise. He opted instead to pull Horatio against him, holding his head against his chest and running his hand gently over his arm. “I’m here now,” Hamlet finally said.

“You might leave,” Horatio said against his chest.

“No,” Hamlet breathed with a sigh, burying his face in Horatio’s messy hair. “I won’t.”

“You tried to. Before,” Horatio said with a sharp breath.

“Yeah,” Hamlet conceded, kissing Horatio’s hair. “But it’s different now. You love me.”

“I loved you then,” Horatio whispered. Hamlet felt Horatio wrap his arms loosely around his waist. “And it wasn’t enough.”

“I know,” Hamlet said miserably, guilt twisting in him. In a sharp wave of instinct and devotion he held Horatio tighter before pushing him upright so that he could face him. Horatio looked so broken and tired. It pained Hamlet just to see him. 

Hamlet took both of Horatio’s hands in his own, tracing gentle circles into the backs of them with his thumbs. “I’m going to be more careful now,” Hamlet said hesitantly. He smiled sadly and a hollow laugh escaped his lips. “Horatio, I love you,” he said, bringing Horatio’s hands to his lips and kissing them. “I love you so much that I’m willing to live for you.”

Horatio blinked at him as the words sank into them both, but after a moment the glossy wetness of his green eyes broke into tears. Horatio chivalrously tried to wiped them away before Hamlet could notice but he saw anyways. Hamlet leaned forward and kissed him passionately on the lips, cupping Horatio’s face lightly with his hands. Even as they pulled away to breathe Hamlet kept their foreheads pressed together, hungry for the closeness. He could feel every place where their bodies met, and each was a welcome point of warmth.

“Come here,” Hamlet instructed as he picked up the blanket, wrapping it tightly around both of them as Horatio shifted positions. Hamlet balled up a towel and made a makeshift pillow, laying contentedly in Horatio’s muddy and damp lap. Horatio ran his fingers through his hair peacefully, though from the slightly ragged feel of his breathing Hamlet knew he was still trying not to cry. “I love you,” Hamlet whispered again, rolling onto his back so that he could see Horatio. “I love you more than anything,” he said again as Horatio bent down and awkwardly kissed him on the lips.

Horatio was tearing up in earnest as he pulled away, and Hamlet reached up to brush away the rogue tears that ran down his dirty face. He smiled as Horatio caught his hand and held it in place against his cheek. “Let’s live together,” Hamlet said warmly. “You can cook and I’ll teach you how to use moisturizer and clothes. We’ll deal with this ghost nonsense and then we can go to Italy and stay in a little villa for a month without cell service and you can fight for my honor in a coliseum or something.”

“You’d die without cell service.” Horatio finally gave him a ghost of a smile. Hamlet grinned.

“The only person I’d want to call is you,” he said happily. He was never so content in his life to be filthy and soaked; vulnerable and trapped in a car in the middle of nowhere as he was when Horatio held his hand to his lips.

“I love you,” Horatio whispered, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I love you too,” Hamlet said softly, amazed by how easy the words rolled off his tongue.


	34. Trails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia comes down. Horatio is sorry. Hamlet discovers a plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
We hope everyone is staying safe! Have some fanfic in these trying times.  
As always, comments and kudos make our day! 
> 
> There are no content warnings for this chapter! Enjoy!

Eventually, Ophelia cried herself to sleep during the long ride home. Fortinbras used her sweatshirt as a towel and tried to dry her hair, but it didn’t help much. Every touch of tenderness made Ophelia want to cut her heart out and leave it in the street. But that would hurt everyone too. Everything she did or didn’t do would just hurt and hurt and hurt until she was left alone.

Ophelia didn’t want to be alone and she didn’t want to inflict herself on others. How was she supposed to figure this out? Hell, maybe she wouldn’t have to. Maybe after this Fortinbras would decided she didn’t want any part of the crazy anymore and bug out. Ophelia wouldn’t have blamed her. She didn’t want the crazy anymore either, and yet, here it was, on display for everyone to see.

It would be better, she thought, if everyone decided she just needed to figure it out for herself. No more help. No more kindness. She could do it alone.

And that was her problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t do it alone. Not with Lae at her back and Fortinbras at her side and Dad and Abuela relying on her. Alone wasn’t an option. Somewhere in the space between half-awake and half-dream she remembered an old creation story where the world was dark and people had to hold each other’s hands so they wouldn’t fall into the canyons. It was her mother’s.

Fortinbras nudged Ophelia awake as they pulled into her driveway. Her hair had been brushed, braided, and then brushed out again. Abuela and Dad were sitting of the steps, shielding their eyes from the bright headlights. There were tear tracks across his cheeks and that was her fault. She made her father cry.

The world pulsed around her like shades of the night. Laertes was talking to their abuela, Fortinbras was helping her to her feet, and her dad was looking at her like she had risen from the dead. The only thing they Ophelia could keep in focus were the tears on his cheeks. They might as well be claw marks dragged from her nails.

“I can’t do this again, Lamb,” he whispered as he pulled her into a tight hug. Ophelia stumbled back into the car and he helped her sit on the edge of the seat. “I can’t lose you. Not like how I lost your mother.” He pushed the muddy hair from her forehead and she was forced to look him in the eye. “I love you too much.” He pulled Ophelia into another hug and pressed his tear stained cheek into the top of her head.

“I’m sorry. Dad, I’m so sorry.” Ophelia repeated the phrase as if she had never known any other words.

“I’ve been a bad father,” his voice caught on something deep in her throat. “I should have taught you how to cope. If I had been there fore you--”

“It’s not your fault,” she whimpered. “I thought I could handle it and I couldn’t.” She had wanted so desperately to keep herself together in front of her dad, but it didn’t work. She felt herself sob more than heart it, her chest convulsing against her will. “I don’t want to die alone. Dad, I really don’t want to die alone.”

“You won’t, Lamb. We won’t let you.” Her abuela said as she appeared over her father’s shoulder. Ophelia couldn’t tell how long she had been there. All she could focus was the tears in her eyes too. “What were you thinking?”

It sounded like the type of phrase that should have been yelled in fury, but the words settled around her, soft and heavy like a quilt. “I was so angry,” Ophelia said as she wiped her eyes with the back of one wrist and held her abuela’s hand with the other. “I yelled at Horatio because I thought he was pretending to be possessed by Mom, but it turned out to be real and I said such horrible things to him and they weren’t true.” She gasped to catch her breath. She couldn’t hyperventilate now. She needed them both to understand what she had been thinking. She needed to understand it herself. “I was so angry at Mom and she wouldn’t talk to me even though she talked to Horatio and I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I just wanted her to be gone and I wanted her to come back so much.” Ophelia had to take a moment to still herself. Her abuela rubbed her knuckles with the pad of her thumb.

The more she thought about it, the more fucked up everything seemed. In the moment, it made perfect sense, like it was the inevitable end to a tragic story. Now, it was as brittle and dry like the hollow in a dying tree. “I thought if I could bring her soul back to her body, I could bring her back. And I kept remembering things she said and things that happened. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“She’s gone, Lamb. There’s nothing to do about it.” Her abuela held Ophelia’s cheek and looked deep into her eyes. “You can’t save her anymore. The only person you can save is yourself.”

“I don’t know how,” Ophelia sobbed. “I tried to remember her with joy and it just hurt more and I keep pushing people away and I’ll be left with no one.”

“I left you and Lae alone and I’m not going to let it happen again,” her dad said as he eased her to her feet and inside, out of the cold air. Ophelia clung to his arm like it was the last thing she had. She sat on the couch in between Laertes and Fortinbras. Their arms were around her in an instant. “I don’t know how either,” he admitted, “But we can figure it out together, as a family.” Laertes squeezed her shoulder. “We can do better than the first time.”

Ophelia nodded and held her head in her hands. It pounded, but didn’t hurt. “What do I do about Hamlet and Horatio? I fucked up. I fucked up really bad.”

“You didn’t do anything--” Laertes began before Fortinbras and their dad gave him a look to stop.

“I did! I said they were cowards! I said Hamlet was like his mother! I said that! Why would I say that?!” Ophelia’s voice pitched into a scream and Fortinbras tried to calm her back down again. There were soft words being whispered into her ear, but she couldn’t hear any of them. “I thought Horatio was trying to hurt me and he was just trying to help! I just want my friends back!”

Fortinbras rested her head on Ophelia’s shoulder and held her hand. She was the one warm thing in a room full of cold.

“They don’t deserve--” Fortinbras kicked Laertes when he tried to speak again.

“They’re not going to want me back, are they?” she said before she laughed like the wind. “Hell, I wouldn’t want me back. It’s my fault they’re in danger.”

“How?” Her abuela asked.

Ophelia couldn’t find an answer. “Would you want me back? It’s nothing but trouble.”

“I would,” Fortinbras said. “It’s not trouble, actually. Horatio cares about you so much and so do I. He wants you to be healthy and happy. I think he really wants to be your friend again.” The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I don’t think he ever really stopped.”

“What do I do?” Ophelia asked.

“There’s only one thing to do.” Her abuela smiled too. “Apologize for the things you’ve done wrong, accept the things you haven’t. If he is a good man, he’ll understand.”

* * *

Horatio was nearly asleep by the time they pulled in front of Hamlet’s apartment building. Everything in his body ached and the awkward position he’d cramped himself in, hunched over Hamlet with his fingers still tangled in his hair, certainly hadn’t helped matters. He startled when Osric popped open the back door, accidentally yanking Hamlet’s head to one side as he yanked his hand.

“Sorry.” Horatio whispered.

Hamlet caught his hand and carefully freed his blond locks. “It’s alright.” He said soothingly. A bolt of intense guilt coiled through Horatio as he realized just how much mud he’d managed to spread across Hamlet in his selfish search for heat and comfort. Even from a quick glance, Horatio could pick out dried dirt along his roots and a small caking of brown on his cheek, not to mention his nice clothes which were, of course, utterly wrecked. Horatio didn’t understand much about clothes but even he knew that stains like that didn’t come out of cashmere.

“I’m sorry.” He said again miserably.

“It’s okay.” Hamlet assured him with a light hand on his arm. “I’m here.”

Horatio nodded loosely and, with a quick glance to Hamlet’s open face, dragged himself out of the car. He let Hamlet lean into him again, though his positioning indicated that he was ready to catch Horatio if he stumbled. He almost squirmed at the thought. It was too weird, he thought, as Hamlet carefully guided him through the revolving door and nodded to Marcellus to let them up. This was normally his job. Hamlet leaned on him and Horatio was the one who nodded to the night guard and when they got to the elevator he’d be the one to press the button but Hamlet did that too.

“Okay,” Hamlet said calmly as he settled Horatio onto the (pristine) couch and threw his still damp jeans on the (expensive) carpet. Horatio made a keen sound of distress, which was answered immediately by a kiss on the brow. “Don’t think about it.” Hamlet ordered, voice somehow commanding and perfectly warm at once.

Slender fingers brushed through his hair as Hamlet sat beside him. His face was drawn with concentration as he brushed slender fingers over the pounding bruise. Horatio tried to hold still but was about as successful as a toddler. Though he was positive the need wasn’t as bad as the aftermath of Hamlet’s suicide attempt (because nothing in the entire universe could be as bad as that), all Horatio wanted to do was crawl into Hamlet’s lap and hold him until the world made sense again; until he could be sure Hamlet wouldn’t dissolve into nothing or disappear if he blinked too hard or slipped beneath dark water. Careful not to disturb the other’s work, Horatio reached forward and gripped Hamlet’s hips as hard as he dared.

Hamlet paused and glanced down. He removed one hand and placed it over Horatio’s. “I’m not going anywhere. I just need to grab something for your eye.” Hamlet smiled oddly. “I already promised you, remember?”

“Yeah.” Horatio agreed. He didn’t release his hold on Hamlet.

Hamlet rubbed the knuckles of his hand. “I love you.” He said confidently and it was strange but also wonderful. Hamlet was never confident with his feelings, at least not with complex ones. The hard ones. He was wary and dodgy and his guard might well have been the black knight for how impenetrable it was. And yet. He said he loved him like that. Like he just knew. Like he knew.

“I love you too.” Horatio said. He swallowed back a phantom bile. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Hamlet asked. He ran a thumb along the edge of Horatio’s cheek, drawing little circles.

“I don’t know.” Horatio’s brain was banging on the inside of his skull and everything in this room felt wrong and Ophelia was with her brother and Fortinbras so she was safe but how could he know? How could he ever know? He stared at Hamlet’s hand still over his own, the pinpricks of contact laced heaviness through his lower arm.

He extracted his hand, suddenly aware at how pathetic he must appear. “I’m not supposed to be like this.” Horatio muttered apologetically.

Hamlet frowned at him. “You’re not ‘supposed’ to be like anything.” He chided softly.

“Yeah I am.” Horatio begged. “I’m not supposed to do this to you. It’s my job to help and to take care of you. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. Not when everything’s-”

Hamlet cut him off with an insistent kiss. “Don’t.” He said seriously. “I love you, Horatio. Let me help you.”

Horatio bit his lip hard enough to leave an indent, violent visions dancing beneath his eyelids. He couldn’t pull Hamlet into this, not the same way he’d pulled Ophelia into his bullshit with Ariche or the way he’d abandoned Hamlet right before he’d gone off the edge. Everything here was his fault. It had been fine. It had all been fine, maybe not good, definitely not great, but fine. Then Horatio had shown up and started slathering his messy, ridiculous, corrosive feelings everywhere. He’d summoned the ghosts of Hamlet Sr. and Ariche, invited them over for dinner even. He’d forced Hamlet to kiss him, care for him, pity him, then fucked his depression into the basement. He’d wrung Ophelia’s life through a stringer and stabbed it full of holes, stuffed them with flowers to soak up the blood. And now Hamlet loved him.

“Horatio,” Hamlet interrupted his musings. His dark eyes reflected the harsh apartment light like beacons. “Please.”

Hamlet loved him.

“Okay.”

Hamlet’s hands were tender as he spread a weird, cold concoction around his eye and placed a damp cloth over it. The throbbing immediately behind his cornea lessened to a hissing drum as Horatio concentrated on Hamlet’s steady voice, which was slowly working through a series of questions to test for concussions.

Eventually, the cloth was removed and dropped to one side. Hamlet sat forward on his knees and smoothed out Horatio’s hair, letting his hand drift down to Horatio’s cheek. Horatio leaned into it and sighed with mournful content.

“Feeling any better?” Hamlet asked.

Horatio shrugged.

“Feeling any worse?”

Horatio considered it and shook his head. “Not as long as you’re here.” He said, though he wasn’t sure if he meant here as in ‘with him’ or here as in ‘not going to die tonight.’

Hamlet smiled and stroked his cheek. “Well, that’s something.” He said. He paused and pulled his hand back, staring at his palm. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up for bed?” He suggested.

Horatio considered it. “I don’t know if I can.” He admitted. “But don’t worry, I’ll sleep out here.”

“Absolutely not.” Hamlet said sharply. Horatio glanced to him in concern as Hamlet took a few calming breaths. When he smiled again, it was slightly threadbare. “I can help you bathe.”

That was too much and Horatio’s heart crumpled in his chest. He yanked his knees to his chest and tried to hide his face as a fresh flood of tears overtook him.

Horatio sobbed audibly as Hamlet laid a hand along his back and traced smooth circles. “I hate this!” He cried.

“I know.” Hamlet said.

“I’m not supposed to do this!”

“It’s okay that you are.” Hamlet pried his arms open and tucked himself under Horatio’s chin, letting the other hug him tight against his chest. Horatio held his breath in a feeble attempt to master his sobbing but Hamlet quietly encouraged him to cry it out and, ultimately, he was too tired to argue.

It was ungodly late by the time Hamlet managed to coax him into the bath and, because Horatio had apparently lost the ability to function beyond the level of a small child, he insisted on the other climb into the tub with him while he washed his hair. Thankfully, Hamlet was stupid rich and so they weren’t cramped in his jacozzi style tub, though Horatio would say this wasn’t what he had in mind when he imagined bathing with Hamlet for the first time.

The water ran brown and mucky as it drained.

Hamlet offered Horatio an overly fluffy robe as he cLambered out. He reached up and ran his hand through Horatio’s curls to even them out. “Bed time?” He asked, no doubt taking in Horatio’s slumped posture and half mast eyes.

“Please.” Horatio sighed.

The bed was always comfortable because it was covered with no less than ten blankets and seven pillows at all times but tonight it was comfortable just because it was Hamlet’s. As they settled into sleep, curled and tangled into each other, Horatio tried to focus on the feeling of Hamlet’s skin and his soft hair and the way his body fit like a puzzle piece, to banish all thoughts of Ophelia from his mind at least for a temporary reprieve. It didn’t work but Horatio’s shifting did prompt Hamlet to burrow more fully into him.

“I love you.” Hamlet said into his chest. “And I’m not leaving you.”

It was a bittersweet statement but Horatio decided that made it more real. “I believe you.” He whispered into Hamlet’s hair. He paused. “And I promise I won’t leave either.”

“No?” Hamlet asked hopefully.

“No.” Horatio said. “After all, now I’ve got that Italian villa to look forward to.”

Hamlet laughed lightly. “You can do that crappy American thing and use the countryside as ‘inspiration’ for your plays. Find a local mistress to be your muse.”

“You’re the only muse I want.” Horatio mumbled, voice suddenly heavy with sleep. He nested further into the bedsheets and Hamlet’s hair. “This has been a hell month.” He said before drifting off.

* * *

Hamlet woke up too early. Granted, that was noon, but they’d only made it to bed around six in the morning. He snuggled up to Horatio and kissed him on the forehead, running his fingers lightly over his cheek. His brow furrowed slightly but he didn’t stir, and there was no way in hell Hamlet was going to wake him after the night he’d had. He could sleep until tonight if it was what he needed.

Carefully, Hamlet extracted himself from Horatio’s arms. By his estimate, it was Monday, though time really had lost meaning without classes. He set an alarm on his phone for the afternoon, just in case Horatio tried to sleep through rehearsal. Even if he was concussed, he’d need to muscle through if they were going to be able to put on a good play before the semester ended.

Hamlet scrubbed out the tub before taking his morning shower, mostly because without the adrenaline the dark ring of dirt left by their muddy bath last night was completely revolting. Once adequately clean and fully moisturized he moved on to the more important task of fetching his laptop and charger from the other room, cringing quietly as he saw the sheer quantity of mud that the two of them tracked in. It was fine, he reassured himself. Bleach fixed everything, and Osric had formulations for nearly every stain and material that existed.

He plugged in the charger and gingerly climbed back into bed beside Horatio, smiling to himself as he reached for him even in his sleep. It was nice, he decided. There was an honesty between them now that he’d never enjoyed with anyone before; not even his father. He swept Horatio’s hair off his bruised eye before opening up the computer. He gathered his spirits and hit the unassuming email icon.

There were no less than twenty unread emails in his inbox, a solid ten of which were from Rosencrantz and/or Guildenstern. He opened the one with the subject line_ “Tickets home”_ first, skimming it quickly before opening up his account with Air France and buying them two first class tickets home for the weekend. If his skimming was correct, which it always was, the two had gotten themselves in a spot of trouble on the party scene.

He deleted the two emails from Elsinore. One was automated and just informed him of the latest influx of funds into his and Mother’s bank accounts, and the other was a personal email from Mother’s secretary “checking in” on his winter plans. Madame DeLacour would just need to tell her that he was never setting foot in the agency again.

Next on the list was the ominous email from Rosencrantz with the subject line _“Money trail- final.”_ Hamlet wished briefly that Horatio was awake and thus able to open it for him, but part of him felt that he needed to be the first to see it. He read the brief note from Rosencrantz before downloading the PDF.

_Hey- _

_ Hope you aren’t dead. Here is the final product of my research into the purchases of the bullet and gun that you sent me the specs of. Fair warning, I had to pose as you to make a few of the calls to your bank in order to get the complete list of withdrawals over $5K, and I want to talk to you in person (if you’re alive after the pirate thing) about something weird that happened when I contacted the manufacturer to retrieve a copy of the receipts. I don’t think it’s a huge deal right now, but if you want to be safe and since I literally know the net worth of your family’s company I recommend changing phones, keeping it completely shut off when you aren’t using it, and possibly your IP address. Or just getting someone to triple check that your data is secure and nothing is tracking your location. _

\- _R_

_P.S. For the love of god buy us the tickets home. We emailed you three times. _

Hamlet read and reread the message several times. His knowledge of technology essentially cut out after Rosencrantz started talking about contacting the bank for withdrawals, since it hadn’t even occurred to him that, since the money pool was family money, Mother, Claudius, and himself would all be drawing money from the same place and the same bank. The bit with the manufacturer seemed sketchy, but Rosencrantz knew more about that stuff than him and he figured he’d probably have sent him a text or called him if he was in any danger. The phone thing was easy enough. He could just get the newest iPhone and change numbers. He’d ask Osric about the computer stuff, or possible Rosencrantz once he was home.

_Hello Mr. Kierkegaard,_

_ We are pleased to inform you that-_

Once he hit the “pleased to” part he relaxed and let himself skim the rest, still high on adrenaline. He kicked himself internally for the fact that the director of the film had to email him instead of call. Or in addition to calling. The missed calls from unfamiliar numbers made sense now. He emailed the casting director back, apologizing profusely and double checking that the lay over in response hadn’t completely slashed his chances. A call-back for a high-brow indie film was a big deal for any actor, especially one still in under-graduate. The male lead, no less. It was too good to pass up, though he wanted to talk to Horatio about it before he said yes or no. He’d have some time before the audition, and some time after to decide what he needed to do.

It did create an added incentive to get this whole ghost thing dealt with. His life was coming together, and premature death was beginning to look like less and less of a viable solution to his problems, especially given the promises he made to Horatio.

He closed his laptop and stared contentedly at Horatio’s sleeping face. He ghosted a finger over the outline of his black eye, frowning at how dark and painful it looked. As angry as Laertes and Fortinbras must have been, it still didn’t quite make sense to hit Horatio over it. Then again, Hamlet really didn’t know much of what went on the week he was with Yorick. For all he knew Horatio did and said horrible things while completely nuts from ghost energy or whatever it was that messed him up during seances.

Hamlet smiled lightly as Horatio’s eyes fluttered open, though it quickly fell as he saw how bloodshot his left eye was. “Hey,” Hamlet said gently, stroking Horatio’s cheek as he grimaced in pain. “How are you feeling?”

“Can we make the apartment darker?” Horatio whispered, pulling the heavy blankets over his head.

“Yeah,” Hamlet said quietly as he jumped out of bed, pulling closed all of the blinds. He felt completely blind until his eyes adjusted. “Better?” He asked as he felt his way back into bed.

“Mhm,” Horatio hummed as he tried to wrap his arms around him. Hamlet caught his laptop as Horatio’s elbow nearly pushed it off the bed. “What was that?”

“Laptop,” Hamlet said, placing the computer on the bedside table.

“Emails?” Horatio asked blearily, finally wrapping him in a warm hug. Hamlet kissed his cheek lightly and stroked his shoulder.

“Yup,” Hamlet smiled. “I got invited to do a call-back for that fancy indie movie.”

“The rom-com?” Horatio mumbled against his shoulder. Hamlet snorted.

“Nope. I didn’t actually audition for that one, we just laughed at the premise together,” Hamlet said haughtily. “It’s the tragic gay one. Historical fiction.”

“Which role did you audition for?” Horatio asked, slowly waking up and returning to his senses.

“The young illicit lover that seduces the married business man and ultimately goes insane and dramatically dies in a murder suicide when his wife finds out,” Hamlet rattled off. “It’s all very fashionable. You’ll love it, I think it’s set right around World War One.”

“Probably,” Horatio sighed. “When’s the call-back?”

“Probably later this month or early November,” Hamlet said. Anxiety peeled over him as he realized that this was yet another thing that would separate them. Granted, this would be a day and nothing more, but Yorick warned him about how the changing seasons would affect the ghost. November was technically fall by according to the calendar, but who knew what schedule the dead kept.

“Hamlet?” Horatio asked, pulling him back to reality.

“Yeah?” Hamlet asked softly, focusing back on Horatio.

“I asked you if there were any other emails,” Horatio said with a slight tenseness.

“Uh…” Hamlet considered letting the ones from Rosencrantz slide to the back burner for another day. Then again, a second opinion could be could. “I heard back from Rosencrantz.”

“Oh?” Horatio shifted so that he was sitting up right, and even in the low light Hamlet could see the sudden intensity in his focus.

“Yeah,” Hamlet nodded weakly. “It was, uh. Kind of weird. And I can’t really make heads or tails of the PDF because half of it is numbers and transaction notes, so I was thinking of having Osric look it over after rehearsal. Especially since there was this whole weird bit about my phone and tracking and-”

“Tracking?” Horatio cut him off, voice tight with fear. “What do you mean? Can I see it?”

“Uh, sure,” Hamlet said, feeding off of Horatio’s fear as he lifted his computer back onto his lap. He brought up the email, letting Horatio read it quickly.

“Hamlet, this is bad,” Horatio said with a sharp breath.

“Bad how?” Hamlet asked earnestly. He’d heard of phone tracking and hacking computers from movies and, as of now, Rosencrantz, but it seemed so unlikely.

“Bad as in I have no idea what half of it means but it sounds bad,” Horatio said quickly. “Can I see the PDF?”

“Yeah,” Hamlet whispered as he opened the download. In it were several pages of unaltered documents and receipts, followed by pages of explanation written by Rosencrantz as well as a few confusing flowcharts of where the money went. Hamlet’s eyes were caught by a blue hyperlink at the top of the page, which, according to Rosencrantz’s notes, would take them to what he believed was the last site through which a payment was made with a credit card tracing back to the family bank account. “Should I click it?” Hamlet asked.

“Click what?” Horatio didn’t look away from the lengthy paragraph he was on.

“The link. To the site.” Hamlet said, mousing over to the link.

“Don’t click it!” Horatio almost shouted, straightening up abruptly. His knee bumped Hamlet’s hand as he shifted, causing him to inadvertently tap the hyper-sensitive mouse of his mac and open the link.

“Shit,” Hamlet said under his breath as a new window in a weird browser opened up, causing his computer to lag slightly and heat up.

“Why did you click it? I told you not to click it!” Horatio said in a terrified whisper.

“I didn’t mean to!” Hamlet protested.

“Close it! Close the window!” Horatio hissed, taking the laptop from his hands and trying to get the pop-up to close.

“Why won’t it close?” Hamlet said, aware that his voice raised a pitch. The window opened to what appeared to be an unbelievably sketchy looking site, featuring menu options akin to some commercial website, inviting them to dubiously vague tabs with titles like “Security,” “Personal Safety,” “In Stock” and “Temporary Hires.” Before they got a chance to read all the options or click on any of the links, another pop up opened.

“What the hell?” Horatio muttered to the computer. “‘Marked IP address’…What the-”

“Horatio, my phone,” Hamlet said, fiery panic igniting his chest as a robotic notice on his phone informed him that, due to some numerical security thing, it was shutting down.

“Fuck this,” Horatio said, holding down the power button on the laptop and shutting the shole thing down. The two of them sat in what felt like impenetrable dark without the electronic screens.

“What do we do?” Hamlet asked once his breathing settled down slightly. He was suddenly aware that he was gripping Horatio’s arm so hard that his nails left marks.

“Well…” Horatio said thoughtfully. “We call Osric. And we leave all your technology off.”

“We need to go to rehearsal this afternoon,” Hamlet said weakly.

“Okay,” Hamlet nodded. Rehearsal would take up at least two hours, and it would be in a space filled with close-knit cast and crew. No one would be able to creep up on him without someone noticing. “Okay, yeah. Can we go over early?”

“Sure,” Horatio nodded, tone quickly becoming reassuring. “Let me get brush my teeth and stuff. You can call Osric on my phone.”

“Yup,” Hamlet nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call Osric.”

Hopefully “Internet MacGryver” was yet another thing on his resumé.


	35. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
This is us trying to get back on a regular updating schedule! For the time being, we'll update on Thursdays and Sundays! As always, comments and kudos make our day and we adore feedback!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia apologizes. Horatio plays counsellor. Hamlet rebuilds friendships. 
> 
> There are no content warnings for this chapter! Enjoy!

Ophelia wasn’t actually sure if she would be able to do it. It felt like it had been ages since she’d stood in front of Hamlet’s door in hopes that something good would happen. She stared at Hamlet’s tacky anti-welcome mat and bit the heel of her hand. Anger was easier. When she was angry, she was in control and could make the situation bow to how she needed. She could sculpt her anger like glass.

Ophelia didn’t even know what this emotion was. It beat empty wings against her ribs and talons tore into the lining of her stomach. This creature was barely contained and was trying desperately to rib itself from her body and wreak havoc wherever it went. She couldn’t let it.

She took a deep breath. The oxygen calmed the beast, but nothing could satiate it. The thing was, Ophelia had to apologize anyway. This time, however, Ophelia was smart and she left her brother at home. Fortinbras was hanging out in the chic little lounge, waiting for her to come back.

“Oh, that was fast,” she said when she heard Ophelia’s shoes click across the marble floor. She looked up from her phone with a sympathetic glance. “I didn’t hear the apocalypse.”

“The apocalypse hasn’t started yet,” Ophelia sighed as she threw herself on a chair.

“And it never will,” Fortinbras said with a pat to her knee.

“Then why does it feel so bad?” She was exactly one step away from deciding this could be done tomorrow or the next day or the next. But then she’s never have her friends again.

“Because you don’t know what they’re going to say and there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.” She held the very tips of Ophelia’s fingers. “Might as well just do it.”

“Do you think it’ll be okay?” she asked, expecting the same answer she had gotten all day.

“I don’t know.” Ophelia was exactly right. “You can only do your best. Nothing more.” Fortinbras was soft eyes and hard words that fell as gentle as feathers.

“What if it’s not perfect?” She worried into the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

“It won’t be, and that’s perfectly okay,” Fortinbras said as she held Ophelia’s hand a little tighter. “Do you want to rehearse again?”

“No. No.” She stood up and shook out her wrists. “I’ve got to do it, don’t I?”

Fortinbras shrugged. “I think you want to.”

“I do.” Ophelia smiled, but she didn’t feel any joy. She brushed off her skirt and held out her arms. “Do I look presentable?”

“Always.” Fortinbras flashed her a quick smile.

“You don’t have to stay here,” she blushed. “I’m not sure how long anything will take and I, like, don’t want to keep you or anything.”

“Nope, I’m good,” she said as she opened her phone again. “Just give me a text when things have settle out. I can pick you up or chill somewhere or whatever you need.”

Ophelia smiled and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, it means a lot to me.” Fortinbras smiled back and she was warm like the sun.

The feeling of sick returned as soon as Ophelia started walking up the stairs. Each step brought her ever closer to something she didn’t know. There were three steps more and then ten down the hall until Ophelia was in front of Hamlet’s door; one step more until she could reach out her arm and knock.

And she did it. The sound of her knuckles against the wood and the sharp click of her ring echoed around her skull. This really was it. Unless they saw her before and decided not to open the door. Unless Osric was there and decided she put Hamlet in too much danger. Unless they didn’t want her to want forgiveness. Unless. Unless. Unless.

But no, Ophelia couldn’t do this again. She said she would save herself and this was a hand outstretched into waters she made muddy herself. Green eyes met hers as they peered through the gap of the door.

“Umm, hi,” Ophelia said, the words that she rehearsed with Fortinbras fleeing from her memory. “I don’t think you want to see me, but I have some things I need to say.”

Horatio blinked back, eyes round and wide and green like still water. He said nothing and Ophelia tried to interpret the twitch of his mouth and the squint of his eyes. They meant something; something that she was supposed to be good at figuring it out. She was supposed to, but she couldn’t. Every thought in her head screamed that she should run away and disappear into nothing and save them from her miserable excuse of a life.

But that wasn't an option because Horatio was standing here, now, and if she ran, he would think it was his fault and she couldn’t do that to him. Not again and again and again.

“You don’t need to forgive me. I just need to apologize,” Ophelia stammered as she ran her fingers through her hair. It was disgusting. Even after a shower, it still felt full of dirt and muck. “You don’t need to listen to me apologize either, if you don’t want to. I just--” She took a deep breath. “I just need you to know it’s not your fault.”

“Ophelia, I--” Horatio started to say, but she cut him off even though she knew it was rude and insensitive and everything she wasn’t supposed to be.

“None of it is. I’m sorry I said you were a coward and a liar. I’m sorry I thought you were trying to hurt me. Because in the four years I’ve known you, you’ve never tried to hurt anyone and I don’t know why you would start now.” The words were torn from her throat. It didn‘t feel like her wrath, where the words clawed their way up from her stomach, leaving bloody track marks and hitting their intended mark. These words ran murky and dark, leaving her lungs like coughed up streams of water.

They hurt like drowning because Ophelia knew they were true this time. Horatio pulled her into the penthouse by her wrist and she barely registered the door click shut behind her. “And I believe you now, but it’s not like that makes it any better because I didn’t believe you when it mattered.” Ophelia laughed hollowly in the place of crying. Tears manipulated the situation and then he would feel like he had to forgive her and he didn’t. Horatio didn’t have to forgive her.

“And I’m sorry she did that to you and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I’m sorry she used you and there’s nothing I will be able to say that would ever make up for something as horrible as that. And I’m sorry I can’t make her apologize to you, and it probably doesn’t help, but I think she would have wanted to.” Anger creeped its way into Ophelia’s chest; cold and dark worse than the night. It’s familiarity softened the pain in the air around her and she wanted to scream util her lungs gave out.

That was the thing. She lied. Ophelia had no idea if her mom would have wanted to apologize. She was just guessing based on the woman she knew from before, but clearly they were nothing alike. “I’m sorry I believed in the memory of her over the reality of you. I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do to make this right.” Ophelia watched as Horatio blinked and grasped somewhere in his mind for the right words to say even though they didn’t exist. There wasn’t a script anymore or cues or anything and Ophelia felt so endlessly alone. 

“And I need to apologize to Hamlet too, because God knows I’ve been terrible to him,” she laughed again; a poor substitute for the abject grief that clung to ever membrane in her body. “And I don’t know how because nothing I can say fixes anything and everything I do makes it worse. He’s not a disgrace and he’s nothing like him mother and I miss him so much. He deserves your love and you deserve his and you both deserve to be so happy together.”

Unable to read the emotions that crashed against her body, Ophelia inched closer to the door. “And I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but I needed you to know that you were the best friends I’d ever had.”

* * *

Horatio had no idea what to do with this. With any of this. Ophelia didn’t do spewing, prattling style apologizing. That was his go-to, guilt driven routine. Apologizing over and over compulsively until someone physically stopped him or he felt too worn to continue. It was confusing and weird and he was utterly exhausted and also about ninety percent sure that Hamlet was going to get taken out by internet snipers at any given second so he said the only coherent thing he could manage.

“Hamlet got a call back.”

Ophelia, still teary eyed and poised to run, stopped short, face scrunched up in befuddlement. Horatio could see her mind struggling to find the connections in the conversation. “I…” she began, “that’s good?”

“Yeah.” Horatio confirmed. He shifted awkwardly, aware that he probably still looked like a wreck from last night’s breakdown. The bright lights of Hamlet’s penthouse burned his eyes and peeled into the back of his skull. “He seems excited. It’s for that, uh, gay tragedy. The one with the war and the businessman.”

“Nice…” Ophelia said slowly.

“Yup.” Horatio said. He swallowed and glanced back towards the bedroom. “Do you want to talk to Hamlet now?”

“I mean…” Ophelia said, “I suppose.” She fiddled with her hands, which looked raw from her dash through the woods. She took a deep, hard breath. “Uh, do you...are you…” Her face was a mask of awful, bloody guilt and it made Horatio’s stomach turn to even look at it. “Do you want me to leave afterwards?”

“No.” Horatio said. His voice, despite everything or maybe because of it, remained even and calm.

“Okay.” Ophelia whispered, crossing her arms tight across her chest. Another breath and she managed to stutter out. “Do you...do you forgive me?”

“I…” Horatio considered the words for a moment, attempting to sort all his messy emotions into their usual neat piles and confined shelves. It didn’t work, of course. It wouldn’t work because suddenly there were a million and a half new emotions and feelings and words without category or reason or familiarity. Utter helplessness and warm hands rubbing his back and torrid fear and sobbing too hard to breath and the sensation of frigid mud sinking through his jeans and love fueled by loss and the feeling of being held and cared for in an entirely intimate way, without the expectation of return or repayment. It felt like someone had written character development into his arch but was lazy and half assed about it, leaving him to scramble as he tried to assemble the pieces into something readable. It felt horrible. It felt wonderful. It felt strange beyond words.

“I don’t know.” Horatio finally said. “I don’t think I need to forgive you.”

Ophelia seemed to collapse under the weight of the statement, teary eyes running free. A measure of urgency invaded Horatio’s system as he realized his word choice blunder.

“I didn’t mean it like I don’t accept your apology.” He corrected himself quickly. “I just meant...I don’t really think there’s anything to forgive?”

He sensed rather than heard the door open behind him and turned to see Hamlet lingering there, blank faced in that particular way which meant he was uncertain. He caught Horatio’s gaze and tilted his head as if to say _why’s she her?_

Horatio backed up and stood close to Hamlet. “She came to apologize.” Horatio said before Hamlet could speak, afraid already of what might pass between the ex-lovers. “I said she didn’t need to.”

Hamlet glanced up to him in earnest surprise which washed out to undirected anger. “Like hell she doesn’t need to.” He spat forcefully. “Her brother gave you a black eye and left you sobbing in the woods.”

“Yeah,” Horatio said as Ophelia’s jaw clenched, “and I took her mom’s cross, stole her boyfriend, threatened to stab Fortinbras, and broke her heart.”

“That doesn’t matter. She hurt you.” Hamlet repeated. He glared at Ophelia, dark eyes flashing with razor sharp rage, and pressed close to Horatio’s side. Hamlet looked about ready to kill but Horatio knew by now that most of the energy behind his rage was misplaced fear and protectiveness. He took Hamlet’s hand and rubbed gently along the knuckles.

“She did.” Horatio admitted. “...And you cheated on her and called her a dog.” He turned to Ophelia. “And you told him he was as bad as his mom and a disgrace to his father during one of the hardest times in his life.”

Both Ophelia and Hamlet seemed thoroughly cowed by the summary. As each avoided his gaze, Horatio sighed. “I think it’s time to own up to the fact that we all fundamentally fucked up.”

Hamlet looked ready to protest and Ophelia was on the edge of apologizing again so Horatio spoke over them. “I am so tired.” He laughed, though it was short and humorless. “I am _so_ fucking tired and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a concussion and I just miss my friends so can we please-” his voice cracked loudly and he had to take a pause to compose himself. Hamlet and Ophelia both stared at him with different levels of visible guilt and not for the first time, Horatio was struck by how similar they were. He bit his lip and let the words settle in his throat before he spoke. “I miss you both. Can we please just get over ourselves, realize that we all kinda suck, and go back to being the weird collection of bastards we always were?”

Hamlet and Ophelia exchanged a long look, halfhearted suspicion echoing from Hamlet’s end and met by a ragged hopefulness on Ophelia’s.

“I’d like that.” Ophelia said softly.

Horatio smiled weakly at her and squeezed Hamlet’s hand. “Hamlet?” He asked. The anticipation in the air was almost enough to overwhelm him as he watched Hamlet mull it over. For once, he didn’t know what he’d do if Hamlet didn’t accept the apology. He had absolutely no idea.

Finally, Hamlet sighed and, though he rolled his eyes ad crossed his arms uncaringly, Horatio could see the release of tension in his shoulders.

“Fine.” He said shortly.

It wasn’t perfect but it was something and Horatio loved him all the more for it.

He kissed Hamlet, only realizing his mistake when Opehlia coughed. Horatio glanced to her nervously and was relieved to find she didn’t appear upset. Or, at least, not upset about the kiss. Horatio glanced to Hamlet for confirmation before he let go of his hand, crossing the short divide over to Ophelia.

“Don’t do that again.”

By the way her face paled, he didn’t have to specify what he was talking about. Ophelia nodded stiffly. “Yeah.” She said, brown eyes intently on his own. “I...I won’t. Promise.”

“Okay.” Horatio said. He slumped slightly as all the bones in his body seemed to dissolve at once, the adrenaline fueled fear which had been supporting him fleeing into the air. Maybe he wouldn’t have to bury anyone, after all. Maybe he wouldn't have to die for them. Maybe. He shook his head. No, not maybe. Never maybe. Nobody was going to die. Not on his watch.

“Okay,” he repeated as he ran a hand through his hair. “Good.”

“Yeah.” Ophelia hesitantly stepped forward and took his hand while Hamlet grabbed his other and finally the world felt right again.

“Okay.” Horatio repeated more firmly. He forced himself to stand straighter and addressed them both. “There’s about a million things we all need to catch up on but rehearsal starts in a half an hour so we’ll have to handle that later.” He glanced back to Hamlet. “Are you sure you’re good to go?”

Hamlet nodded determinately.

“And you?”

Ophelia whipped her eyes and, after a pause, nodded. “Yeah. And I’ve got Fortinbras downstairs.”

“Oh thank god.” Horatio sighed in relief. “For a second there, I thought I was going to have to find new actors.”

Hamlet’s eyebrows shot up as a beautiful smirk quirked across his lips. “Why would you think that?”

“You both did that dramatic pause thing before saying yes.” Horatio defended. “I got freaked out.”

He drew another sharp breath and set his jaw. “Play, talk to Osric about the horrors of the internet, then I’m going to take a long ass nap because my head is trying to murder me. I’m going to go grab my coat.” He started towards the bedroom but stopped short. “Unless you two need me to play relationship counselor some more?” He tried the old joke out hopefully.

“Get out of here.” Hamlet snapped even as he smiled. Ophelia laughed and though the sound was odd and watery, it was real.

Horatio smiled.

They’d be okay.

* * *

Hamlet regretted letting Horatio go the second the door closed, leaving him startlingly alone with Ophelia. Even when they were dating; even _before_ they were dating; emotional conversations were no easy matter between them. Her warm brown eyes were gleaming with shed tears and trepidation, reminding Hamlet to perhaps soften his stance and relax the frigidity in his gaze.

“Would you perhaps like to sit?” Hamlet finally said, surprising himself with his own voice. Dissociation from his own stress and body tended to do that.

“Sure. Couch?” Ophelia said in what was an approximation of calm. Hamlet didn’t nod but rather sat stiffly on the couch at her command. She sat on the far opposite side and didn’t meet his eyes.

Hamlet bounced his foot and fiddled with the fabric of his cardigan. Where to start. There was a case to be made for apologizing first for the dog thing. He didn’t feel all that bad about the cheating, all things considered. Which he felt guilty for. Then, of course, there was a compelling argument to scream at her about whatever stress she and Laertes caused to Horatio in his absence.

“So.” Ophelia said, taking the first shot. It was followed by heavy silence.

“So…” Hamlet considered his options. “Where would you like to start?”

“Well,” Ophelia said with a sharp breath, “I guess...what are you most upset about?”

“You made Horatio cry,” Hamlet said coldly; without thought.

“_You _made Horatio cry first,” Ophelia returned sharply before folding. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

“No, you aren’t.” Hamlet crossed his legs. The conflicting halves of his mind were at war over how cruel he had a right to be.

“I really am sorry that I compared you to your mother,” Ophelia said quietly.

“And I’m sorry I called you a dog,” Hamlet said, possibly too quickly. “And I’m sorry that I cheated on you, but I don’t regret that I did it.”

“That’s okay,” Ophelia said, finally meeting his gaze. “I honestly couldn’t care less. I think I sort of knew how you felt.”

“Good,” Hamlet nodded. “And you’re dating Fortinbras now?”

“Yup,” Ophelia said with an awkward nod.

“Is she going to give Horatio another black eye?” Hamlet asked, half-sarcastic and half-completely dead serious.

“No,” Ophelia said. She smiled weakly. “She’s kinda advocated for him during all this.”

“Will she give _me_ a black eye?” Hamlet asked icily.

“Depends on how awful you are to her,” Ophelia said, taking a warning tone against his coldness.

“I’m pretty sure Horatio would stab her if she tried,” Hamlet said.

“Why don’t we try to avoid it, then?” Ophelia asked impatiently.

“Fine,” Hamlet said tersely. “How are the two of you doing?”

“Really good,” Ophelia said with an honest smile. “And you?”

“I’d die for Horatio,” Hamlet said wistfully. “But he wouldn’t let me, so we agreed to stay alive together.”

“That’s...good?” Ophelia asked weakly.

“Yup.” Hamlet disregarded her questioning expression. It _was_ good. Hamlet would never admit to it, but he’d already started an itinerary for their trip to Italy, as well as a folder of shopping lists, phone numbers, and invitation formats for what he believed would be their ideal wedding. Yet more confidential was that he’d started it the summer before they even made it to college, way back when they were just seventeen year olds who met at orientation and proceeded to call every single day until they arrived on campus. Back then it was just a “hypothetical” wedding folder that just happened to be based on both of their interests.

“Is there other stuff we should talk about now?” Ophelia asked, pulling him back from his daydreams.

“I mean,” Hamlet started, “there’s a bunch of ghost stuff. We can talk more about Horatio if you want. Or Fortinbras.” He shrugged. “Or guilt.”

“Guilt?” Ophelia asked incredulously. He instinctively wanted to lash out at her tone, but he held himself back.

“I shouldn’t have left Horatio here while I was in France,” Hamlet conceded. “I feel bad that he got hurt, and hurt you in the process. If I’d been there, or if he were with me, none of it would have happened and he wouldn’t have a black eye.”

“Ah,” Ophelia nodded. “That’s...all?”

Hamlet frowned at the leading question. He personally didn’t feel like she was entitled to the full list of wrong-doings he was aware of having committed. She had what she wanted, didn’t she? He hadn’t kicked her out, and had apologized for at least two things. “That’s all.”

“Really?” Ophelia pressed.

“For you?” Hamlet asked. “I suppose I could apologize for having dated you in the first place, if you like. I’m nearly certain now that I wanted Horatio from...maybe freshman year. Possibly earlier.”

“I guess that’s a good start,” Ophelia sighed.

“Can we go to rehearsal now?” Hamlet asked.

“Sure,” Ophelia said more certainly.

“Follow up question,” Hamlet said as he stood.

“Shoot,” Ophelia said, only slightly hesitant.

“It’s not going to, you know, be an _issue_ that I’m with Horatio now, right?” Hamlet asked, opening the door for her.

“How so?” Ophelia asked.

“You know. Couple stuff. Holding hands and kissing.”

“Oh, no problem,” Ophelia said with a breath of relief. She must have read the doubt on his face. “I honestly can’t imagine being jealous of Horatio.”

“Why?” Hamlet pouted slightly. Even if he didn’t want to date her at all, he felt slightly snuffed at the fact that _she_ felt no regret for having lost him. Most of his exes at least resented his new partners a little.

“You are _so_ high maintenance,” Ophelia smirked. “It’s nice to finally be adored, and not the one doing the adoring.”

Hamlet scoffed. “I was great.”

“You were okay at best,” Ophelia said with snarky affection. Hamlet smiled at the familiarity.

“Well,” Hamlet said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. His focus was immediately drawn to Horatio, who was awkwardly standing on the opposite side of the room from Fortinbras. He was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, probably against the headache. He looked so dumb. “I may be a bad boyfriend, but I’m a good inamorato.”

“What the hell is that?” Ophelia tried to ask. Hamlet ditched her on the stairs and jogged across the room to Horatio, gripping his arm lightly.

“Hey,” Horatio smiled faintly as he opened his eyes.

“Hey,” Hamlet grinned, relief washing over him. Apologizing was stressful and exhausting, but he felt none of that now.

“I just got off the phone with Osric. Time for rehearsal?” Horatio asked.

“Yeah,” Hamlet nodded, weaving their fingers together as he took his hand. Fortinbras and Ophelia were already assembled near the door of the lobby. The four of them stepped out into the flaming New York sunset, and he squeezed Horatio’s hand as he winced against the brightness.

“I’m definitely concussed,” Horatio mumbled.

“We’ll nap later,” Hamlet promised. He leaned his head briefly against Horatio’s shoulder as they walked. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading our latest chapter! Please let us know what you think by leaving kudos/comments! If you like our style, check out our other long form, collaborative fic! 
> 
> Song of Myself (Frankenstein) https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841387/chapters/44714746


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